Practically Wisdom

Practically Blogging

2009-05-11T11:46:00.003-04:00

”Joe, what‘s up with the wisdom thing?”

I can’t believe how many have asked about Practically Wisdom.

”Joe, everything okay with you and the wife?”
”Joe, break more ribs?.”
”Joe, did you get voted off the island?”

For those of you who really care, I’m here to explain.
I think it all started with my broken ribs and then my February vacation. I was away from blogging and remembering how lazy I can be. Boy, I really enjoy vegetating in front of the television. There’s American Idol, The Big Bang Theory, How I met Your Mother, Two and a Half Men, all the Law and Orders, The Red Sox, The Bruins, The Celtics, House, Desperate Housewives, Burn Notice, Saving Grace, Survivor, the ending of ER, the beginning of Southland, now I’m watching the new show called The Unusuals, then there’s the return of the most awesome Rescue Me, soon there will be So You Think You Can Dance and Big Brother … Well … I think you get the idea … and I’m sure I missed a few.

I have a few excuses to justify my sinking into laziness.
Let’s see … there’s my continuing 50 hour a week job, the blues and most importantly, my own practical wisdom while reflecting on the whole blogging idea.

To my non-blogging readers, I need you to know that blogging, at least the way I’ve been doing it, takes a lot of time and effort. Most of you are personal friends who know my sense of humor. Some of you find me witty, some of you find me quick witted, some of you find me clever and some find me corny or hilarious. There is also the chance that maybe this assessment is just me being delusional. Well … to sum that all up … you don’t blog but you read my posts.

To those of you who are bloggers … How do you friggin’ do it??? I admire every single one of you! From my short list of “Practically Friends” noted on my home page, to the 150 or so bloggers I subscribe to in my Google Reader and to the many commenters, commenting on other blogger’s posts I click to check out … who are you people and how do you friggin’ do it???

Do any of you work? Do you really have these kids and family members you write about?
How do you find the time? How can you be so funny all the time? WTF!!!

I started my blog because I like to make people smile and laugh. But, nobody is going to allow me the opportunity to make them smile or laugh if they don’t read what I write. Accomplishing this has been largely a time consuming ordeal. It was averaging about two hours putting together my post and about 52 hours trying to get people to read it.

For my non-blogging friends it hasn’t been too difficult. I send an e-mail or post a link on my Facebook page. Quick and easy, but I’m only reaching a small percentage of my readers. Note* … a small family and not many friends.

But you guys in cyberspace, geeeez, what a job it is to keep you coming back.
Fifty-two hours of work may be an exaggeration, but for someone like me with a full time job and all that TV to watch, it has really done a number on me.

I really, really love reading all your blogs. You are a talented bunch. I love commenting on your blogs, it not only gives me a chance to show you how delightfully witty I can be, but those comments I leave sometimes entices you to visit my blog and leave your own comments. As I’m sure it is for all of you when you receive comments, it is the greatest satisfaction for me, knowing you read my words. Each time I received a comment it made it all worth while.

I guess I grew tired but didn’t realize it until I was away convalescing with broken ribs and then when I was away on my February vacation. It was difficult for me to get back my rhythm, find my MoJo, my desire to dedicate the hours needed to continue my quest for being known throughout the humor-blogging community.

Yes, I’m still unsure of how I’ll continue from this point.
I very much miss being a part of it all.
Maybe I should just retire and make this a full time gig like I’m sure it is for all of you unbelievable bloggers.

All My Tears, They Feel Like Rain

2009-04-16T12:11:00.001-04:00

I've had the Blues for way too long now.

Where's the Dollar?

2009-03-10T02:17:00.003-04:00

"Okay kid. Where’s the other dollar?"
"Honest sir, he only gave me five. I swear!"
"Kid, do you think I’m stupid? Do you think I was born yesterday? Does it look like I just fell off the turnip truck? (I’m not even sure what that means.)"
"Sir, with all due respect, the manager gave me five, I gave you three and I kept only two."
"Listen kid, I know how to count. If you don’t have it, where is it?"
"Sir, with all due respect, I don’t know where it went. I’m not even sure it’s missing!"
Is he lying? I think you need to know the whole story to decide.

There were three of us traveling together. We needed a place to stay overnight. We spotted a sign on the door to an old bed and breakfast.
"Stay Here Tonight … $10.00", it said.
We went in and asked the gentleman behind the desk for three rooms.
"I’m sorry guys, I only have one room available. Would you like to share the one room?"
After a brief discussion amongst ourselves we agreed to share the room.
The gentleman charged us $10.00 each and collected our $30.00.
There was a young kid mulling about whom he instructed to show us to our room.

About an hour later the manager called for the kid.
"Kid, I feel bad I charged those guys $30.00 for sharing a room."
He handed the kid five ones and told him to return it to us.
The kid, on his way to deliver the money thought it would be much easier to give us just three dollars back (because after all, there were three of us) and then keep two for himself.
We happily accepted the three ones, which we split between us and when we attempted to tip the kid he wouldn’t accept it, admitting to keeping two for himself.

"Hold on just one second there, kid!" I said.
Getting a dollar back each means we paid $27 for the room … Originally we gave him $10 each equaling $30. Now, getting a dollar back each we only paid $9 each. So … 3 times $9 is $27 … the kid kept $2 … making it $29 …
Where did the other dollar go?

Uncle Danny ... From Sleep into Sleep

2009-03-05T11:54:00.005-05:00

Dan was a WW II Navy Veteran & a career Merchant Marine
9/5/1926 - 3/2/2009

Life does not cease to be funny when people die any more than it ceases to be serious when people laugh.
-George Bernard Shaw

Cancun, Revisited

2009-02-24T15:55:00.008-05:00

I’d like to share all the details of my vacation with you but due to tequila circumstances beyond my control … I’m grateful I still have these memories.

Domenica: "So, did you get some Pesos?"
Me: "Yep, I think I’ve got about 723, 471 Pesos."
Domenica: "What! How much did you give them?"
Me: "In dollars?"
Domenica: "What the hell! Did I miss a layover in China where you picked up some yen?"

Domenica: "I can’t believe we’re doing food shopping."
Me: "I can’t believe we’re doing it here in a Mexican Wal-Mart."
Domenica: "We’ll, we do have a kitchen. We may as well cook some meals."
Me: "It’s the least we can do, they did give us the best bedroom."
Domenica: ”What’s with Don?"
Me: "I’m not sure … It kind of looks like … he’s had a couple."
Son-in-Don: "Wooooo Hoooo! Free tequila and rum samples in aisle five!"

Domenica: "I hate wearing this wrist band."
Me: "Honey, ignore it. It’s for our discounts and our two-for-one drinks."
Domenica: "Yeah, but I feel like it’s choking me."
Me: "It’s on you freekin’ wrist!"
Domenica: "I ain’t wearing it!"
Me: "I need a margarita."
Domenica: "Good, you have on your wrist band that means we get two."
Me: "But I want two … You make me need two margaritas."
Domenica: "Then ask for two! They'll give you four. And hurry up, I’m thirsty!"

Me: "Honey, aren’t you excited, this is our first time snorkeling."
Domenica: "Yeah, that’s what I am, excited."
Me: "I think I have this mask on correctly, I’m going in."
Domenica: "You go ahead, I’m right behind you."
Me (Coming up and pulling out my mouthpiece): "Wow! OMG! Look! Right under this pier … tons of fish."
Domenica wearing her mask, sticks her face into the water…)
Domenica: "Yep! Fish! Well, I had enough!"
Me: "Now there’s money well spent."
Domenica: "Hey, this trip does include all you can drink. Amanda! Margaritas!"
Amanda: "You don’t have to ask me twice!"

Jimmy: "Are you paying for that in pesos or dollars?"
Me: "I don’t know. I need my cheat sheet."
Jimmy: "Just multiply by ten. If it’s 50 pesos then give them $5.00 … they’ll like you because you really gave them more than 50 pesos."
Me: "I think I got it. So, I’d really be giving them a little extra."
(Later in the week…)
Me: "I don’t think that waiter likes us."
Domenica: "Why, you’ve been tipping them good, haven’t you?"
Me: "Of course, every day, Jimmy taught me to give them a little more."
Domenica: "So what did you give him the last time?"
Me: "I definitely remember giving him five pesos."
Jimmy: "Good work! You gave him 33 cents."

Me: "Wow! Coco Bongos is awesome."
Domenica: "Yeh … This table is great!"
Me: "I’ll have a beer and a shot of tequila please!"
Domenica: "Same for me." Me (looking up and pointing to the sexy blonde dancing on the bar): "Have the camera ready, I’m gonna be up there dancing with her."
Domenica (looking up at the bar): "Oh, are you?"
Me: "Hey! Wait! I was only kidding. Where are you going?"

Me: "Let’s get some snacks before we board."
Domenica: "Oh, good idea, Carla’s already in line."
(At the airport store)
Carla: "Hurry, I’m next in line. Give those to me."
Me: "I’ll have this, this, these, this and she’ll have those."
Store Clerk: "That will be $44.50 please."
Me: "Huh. Wait. These Mexican nuts must be expensive. I’m putting these back."
Store Clerk: "That will be $37.00 please."
Carla: "Don’t look at me, I only have this water."
Me: "Huh? Crap! Okay, I’m putting these back too, and this."
Store Clerk: "That will be $34.00 please."
Me: "What? Okay, okay, just pay it!"
Domenica: "What the hell did you buy?"
Me: "Carla, let me see the receipt … three waters, M&Ms, GummyBears … Planter’s Nuts ..."
Domenica: "Why you looking at me?"
Me: "That small can of Planter’s Nuts was $14.00!"
Domenica: "Well, they are imported you know."

Domenica: "Joe, you have the key, right?"
Me: "Yes. Right here. Ah, home sweet home."
Domenica: "Everything seems okay, just as we left it."
Me: "I’m hungry, is there anything in the fridge?"
Domenica: "Nope. Shall we order out?"
Me: "Might as well. Chinese?"
Domenica: "Sounds good, let’s go."
Restaurant clerk: "That will be $24.50 please."
Domenica: "Even with this?"
Me: "What! Now you’re wearing your 30% off wrist band?"
Domenica: "So, where are we going next year?"

Hello ...

2009-02-23T17:10:00.002-05:00

Vacation is over.
I'm just dropping by to see what's up!

Where's Joe?

2009-02-06T21:11:00.004-05:00

My apologies to anyone wondering where I’ve been.
No … I'm not in the hospital with more broken ribs!
No … The wife hasn’t thrown me out.
No … I’m not locked in a shrimp truck or stuck in my closet.

I am far, far away … living on a beach.
I wish you were all here.
I’ll be out of the country until after Valentines Day.
I promise to catch up with all of you soon after my return.

Guess where I am.
If you’re correct … I’m firing our travel agent.

I'm a Hoodlum and a Perp

2009-01-27T17:42:00.005-05:00

Rushing around. Trying to get things done.
I had a list of things to do and I wanted to get back in time for Jerry Springer.

It was single digit weather. You know it’s cold when dogs are freezing to fire hydrants. I was prepared. I am, after all, a New Englander.
But that was fairly obvious, by the Red Sox cap on my head and the Patriots hooded sweatshirt zipped up keeping me snug and warm.
To keep warm in such weather you need to dress in layers. I’m sure you’ve heard that before. It’s true, as I always do with such statements; I checked its validity on Snopes.com.

So … under my hooded sweatshirt was a long sleeve denim shirt, over a short sleeved t-shirt, which was over a long sleeve t-shirt, which was covering all I really needed which was the 30 pounds of genuine Italian chest and back fur I usually carry around with me.

No wonder I got more than the normal amount of stares from my fellow shoppers at the supermarket. I must have looked like the Unabomber with my hood up and my bulky sweatshirt stuffed with layers of clothes. And now that I’m thinking about it, it kind of explains why people were going out of their way to avoid my shopping cart as I barreled down the aisles at six APM* instead of my usual two APM. (*Aisle Per Minute). I had not one carriage bump: although I did clip a few people at their heels.

“OUCH! Slow down!”
“Oops! Sorry sir.”
“OWWWW! WTF!”
“Oops! My bad, mamm.”
“Yeeeeowww! Boo-hoo. Boo-hoo! Mommy, mommy!”
“Oops! Sorry kid.”

So … I have two errands left … the dry cleaners and the bank.
I park the car, grab the bag of dirty clothes and run down the sidewalk.
I open the door to the drycleaners … chuck my bag in … and say …
“Marie,Imgoingnextdoortothebank. I’llbebackintwominutestopickupmycleanclothes.”
Shhhhhwoooooosh!
“Marie, what was that? I couldn’t make out who it was.”
“I’m not sure, Sue. According to the label on the bag it was Joe.”

I enter the bank and quickly take my place in line.
I check my watch … Ten minutes to Springer.
“Jerry! Jerry! Jerry! Jerry!” … I think to myself.
Then came the poke in my back.
“Crap! It’s a hold up.”
“You want to remove your sunglasses.” … It was a statement more than a question … I ignored it.
Another poke … only harder …
“I said, remove your sunglasses … and the hood.”
I turn to face an old man, easily in his eighties.
“Sir, they’re called ‘Transitions’ … They’re not sunglasses.”
“Don’t take that tone with me young fella. Now, take off the hood, hat and glasses!”
“Sir, if I take off the glasses I can’t see.”
“That’s it! Let me see some ID!”
“Huh? Wha? … No sir … let me see YOUR ID!”

Then came the manager …
“Okay. Okay, gentlemen. Let’s take a breath. Mr. Sampson, is something wrong?”
“Is something wrong? Why yes, there’s something wrong. This perp won’t take off his disguise.”
“Joe, would you please pull down your hood and remove your cap for the retired Sergeant Sampson?”
“Ahm … sure … okay … sorry about that.”
“There’s something fishy about this hoodlum. He was wearing sunglasses a minute ago.”
“Sergeant, sir, I told you they’re ‘Transitions’! They’re the same glasses!”
“Joe, please, window two, it’s your turn.”
“Next time obey the signs or I’ll bring you in.”
“Yea … whatever!”
“Uh, Mr. Sampson, please, way down this end, window six will take you.”

Back at the cleaners …
“Hey, I’m back to pick up my clothes.”
“Oh, Joe. It was you. You were so quick before. We didn’t know who it was with the hood, hat and sunglasses.”
“OMG! They’re ‘Transitions! Not sunglasses … oh … never mind. Bye!”

“Sue? Is it me, or was Joe just not his usual happy-go-lucky self today?
“You’re right, Marie. He did seem a bit upset … but his glasses were kind of cool.”

Our First Date

2009-01-21T01:42:00.005-05:00

A Hat ... A Ring ... And No Shrimp.

"Joe, can you believe it? It’s been 42 years."
What does she mean … “Can you believe it?”
Time to remind her ... just what made it so.
I shake my hips, thrust my pelvis like I’m being continuously goosed and gyrate a few times … that’s right … doing my "sexy" dance.
I stopped and with complete confidence, gave her a look as though to say … "Who’s your daddy?"
She seemed to be soaking it all in. A few seconds pass … and then … three and a half minutes later, after she wiped the tears and caught her breath, she says …
"Joe, please, you made me laugh so hard my head is hurting."
I never get the results I expect after busting my move.

Forty-two years ago today, we had our first date.
We were fifteen and sophomores in high school.
I had met her for the first time, just a couple of days before our date. She and her friends were just horsing around at the North End Union, a neighborhood social club that had it’s own gymnasium. It was "girl’s night" in the gym. My friends and I were hanging out and looking to get out of the cold.

Inside the club's recreation room we soon became bored and snuck down to check out the girls in the gym and before long, we invaded their space, stole their basketball and started a little keep-away.

I was a pretty cool dude back then, especially with the chicks. That night I was wearing a beret. Very French.
Thinking back, I was lucky I wasn't beat up more often.

We didn’t know these girls and they didn’t know us.
We were all just having some fun, innocently running around chasing each other. Then, suddenly, my head was naked. I turned around and there she was.
It was the first time I really noticed her. She was beautiful. She was smiling at me devilishly. She was twirling my beret with her index finger. I was awestruck. I walked towards her and she let it fly. We continued to exhaust ourselves with further shenanigans until our trespassing was discovered.

As we were leaving (being thrown out) she approached me, removed my hat from head and handed it to me. She noticed my ring, a star sapphire, and asked if she could try it on. She slipped it on her finger and told me she’d give it back later. She spoke with a slight Italian accent. I could say nothing but “okay”.

The next day I was anxious to meet her again and as if she planned it, the ring was my perfect excuse. We found each other that night at the club and properly introduced ourselves. I asked for my ring back and then asked her if she would go with me.
Go with me = Go on a date.
Go on a date = Maybe make-out somewhere.
Maybe make-out somewhere = Fat chance.

Surprisingly she said "yes" … but only if my two friends would come along and go out with her two friends … A triple date. My heart was beating a thousand times a minute. I told her it was a deal. I was so excited I almost passed out.
It didn’t take much to talk my buddies into it, we were all 15-year-olds and a only few chest hairs into puberty.

January 21, 1967 at 8pm. It was a Saturday.
It was very cold and very windy.
The six of us met near Paul Revere’s statue and began walking towards the harbor, which was only a block away. It would be quiet there. Desolate, dark and a great place for making out. At the edge of the water the wind was stronger and after only a few minutes the girls complained it was too cold and wanted to head back. With a dire need for a “plan B”, one of the guys noticed an empty truck at one of the loading docks.

I ran over to inspect. It was a refrigerated truck with a logo of a shrimp company on the side. Further investigating lead to the discovery of an unlocked back door. Inside the truck box was dark and empty, and it would shield us from the wind. The girls were reluctant while the guys were desperate horn dogs. Using the natural skills God gave us we coaxed them ‘til their noses were running and their frozen ears were about to break off.

We all stepped inside and leaving the door opened a crack, we paired off to our own dark corners. Soon there was enough heat to stop the shivering and all that could be heard was the sounds of inexperienced kissing.

I barely made it to first base, but it was a night I would never forget.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere Are Signs

2009-01-16T22:06:00.007-05:00

On a Maternity Room door:
"Push. Push. Push."

At an Optometrist's Office:
"If you don't see what you're looking for, you've come to the right place."

In a Veterinarian's waiting room:
"Be back in 5 minutes. Sit! Stay!"

In the front yard of a Funeral Home:
"Drive carefully. We'll wait."

On an Electrician's truck:
"Let us remove your shorts."

Sign over a Gynecologist's Office:
"Dr. Jones, at your cervix."

This one brought my plumber some business ...
On a Plumber's truck:
"We repair what your husband fixed."

That was a little fun from an old e-mail I had saved.
For more fun ... check out this new blogger.
See what he has to say about "signs".
He's only two-posts-old.
From The Inside Out

Expose Yourselves!

2009-01-15T07:54:00.005-05:00

If you’re here … expose yourself.
I’m not going to mix words, plain and simple, come out!

I spent the past few days catching up on reading posts from my favorite bloggers. Do you know what I found? Many of them are celebrating (That’s what they call it.) National Delurking Week. It’s the first I’ve heard of it. I guess I’m still a rookie.

Anyway … I researched it.
It seems to have originated at Breastfeeding123.com.
I know. I know. Who would want to lurk around a website like that? All those moms talking about boobs and such.
But, apparently, readers do lurk. Not me of course.
I was there just doing research … on “lurking” not “boobs”.
Hey! Stay on the subject.

So these other bloggers have asked their readers, who never comment, to “delurk” or “expose" themselves by commenting and saying hello.
An example would be …
“Hi PracticallyJoe … I’m Louie the Lurker and I admit I’ve been coming by to read your posts without commenting, you are a pissa!”

See … pretty easy, right?
You can even come out anonymously if you’re too shy to say whom you are … although I think it’s a bit creepy. I don’t care. Do it anyway.
But if you do post anonymously … a clue would be nice … I love guessing.
BTW … MS Word changed my “who” to “whom” … you see … Microsoft has been lurking and is playing along!

I’ve witnessed hundreds, even thousands of lurkers coming out of the woodwork at the posts I visited celebrating this phenomena. I expect nothing less.
You crazies who expose yourselves here regularly … I’d like to hear from you as well. Do you have lurkers?
Have they ever exposed themselves to you?

The Seven Wonders of Joe

2009-01-11T03:09:00.005-05:00

A few days ago I was tagged with a meme by FrogMama of Frogs in My Formula. Usually I avoid these like the plague. Well, not really. I was asked once before and played along. I’m such a pushover. I’m to divulge seven random things about me, Practically Joe.

It’s about time you knew … so here goes.

I always have at least 67 cents in my pocket.
Whenever I leave the house, in my right pocket you would find two quarters, one dime, one nickel and two pennies. Why? I’m not sure.
I don’t always come home with them, so it sometimes makes it difficult the next day to replace them. I tried unsuccessfully one time to get through the day with an extra quarter instead of a nickel after scouring the closet, turning pockets inside out and rifling through my wife’s purse. Couldn’t do it. I had to stop and make change at a local convenience store.

For years, I had to wear a wig.
It was a short hair wig. I wore it during the early seventies. I wore it one weekend a month. I tucked my long hair into a nylon stocking and then under the wig. I wore it until I was ordered by my Lieutenant to remove it from my head. I had to cut my hair that day or end up in National Guard prison.

I’m afraid of giraffes.
I don’t like them. They’re scary. They’re not cute. If you don’t believe me you will have to check this out …
The Truth about Giraffes

I had a heart attack over the telephone.
I was in New York on a business trip.
My wife was home in Massachusetts.
I was feeling ill and retreated to my hotel room. I called my wife to tell her I wasn’t feeling well. She said it sounded like I was having a heart attack. I passed out and had one.
Luckily she had the smarts to hang up and call back to notify the front desk.

I wrote three weekly columns for a newspaper.
One of the columns was about family life. I wrote a lot about my daughters. It was torture for them. They hated that I always wrote stories that caused them embarrassment. I was constantly in the doghouse.
I learned my lesson and now mostly write about my wife.
"Uh-uh honey … For better or for worse."

I have an extraordinary talent of solving word puzzles.
I do quiptoquotes in pen. I should probably work for the government deciphering secret codes. I’m also amazing with word jumbles. I solve them in nanoseconds. Check this out …
ncaphis … spinach
natabylltb … blatantly
pnoanidtesmitp … disappointment
Am I fn great at this or what!

Lastly …

I enjoy getting manicures.
Look … The word “man” is right there in front. If that’s not enough for you, break it down … “manic” and “cures”.
There you go … cures manic. It’s therapeutic.
But, there was this "one" problem. I was running out of salons to go to in the neighborhood. I’d been asked not to return in about 15 different Asian dialects.
I can’t help myself. Once they get to the part where they massage my hands, the first finger they pull I always make a farting noise. Don’t Asian dads play that with their kids? I was having to tip really big to get a second appointment.
I’ve been a record three times to Leilie, my current manicurist. She gets me. When I walk in the door she says to all her fellow workers … “hei tawndah sing-song sing song faw ding-ling bwoooomp”… and they all smile and giggle. Then when the time comes, she announces … ”I pull fingers now.” … and they all join in … ”bwoooomp!”

So there you have it!
I'm practically an average Joe!

"Good Morning Joe."

2009-01-07T12:39:00.008-05:00

"Look, I said don’t put the sauce over the steak, tuck it under it."
"Joe, you’re kidding, right? How do I do that? It’s Chocolate Mousse?"
"No, I mean it! Just do it! Use a pen or a pencil if you need to."
"Joe, the new hostess is dancing on a table."
"Quick, shut down the music!”
"Joe, Prince is pissed we unplugged his guitar."
"Crap! Anyone see my pants?”

Opens eyes.
Rubs eyes.
Yawns.
Looks at the time.
Throws off covers.
Swings legs over side of bed.
Looks around.
Stands up.
Scratches.
Stretches,
More scratches.
Walks into bathroom.
Lifts seat and aims.
More scratching while listening to babbling brook.
Flushes, puts seat down (well trained).
Washes hands, wets face, looks in mirror.
Yawns again … Scratches again.
Picks up eyeglasses from dresser and puts them on.
Like every morning … walks from bedroom across to guestroom to checkout street scene, glimpse at the weather, see if car was stolen.
But … today …
"YYYYYEEEEEEEEEIIIIIKKKKKEEEEESSSSS! OMG! WTFruitcake!"

Visibly shaken.
Picks up phone.
Dials. Hears ring. Hears recording. Presses #2. Presses #1. Waits …
"Pharmacy, How can I help you?"
Still shaking …
"Honey, it’s me. Thanks for the near heart attack."
"Oh, ha ha ha, I forgot to tell you about that. I bought it for Lucia. Sorry."
"Great. Bye."
Click.
Scratch.

Our new 5 foot guest.

Let's Talk

2008-12-30T22:05:00.007-05:00

"Come on, Luke Three, aren’t you hungry?"
"Honey, he’s not going to answer you."
Since the kids have moved out, we have decided that it’s difficult enough to just take care of me, so we both agreed … No Pets.
That didn’t stop my wife from bringing home “Luke Three”. He, or she, is a Beta fish. Oh, yes, there was “Luke” and “Luke Two”. My wife still calls this latest one “Luke Two”. I argued, there was already one. She said there were three others. Then one was missing. It may have been named “Luke One” … and if it had been “Luke One”, then which one would just plain “Luke” be?
Technically, “Luke” would be “Luke One” as well, right? I was so confused.
She finally put me straight … there was “Luke” and all that followed would be named “Luke Too”.
Welcome to my marriage!
Anyway … how she names our fish isn’t the point.
The point I’m making is this … she talks to it.
When she taps the top of the tank and shakes in some food, Luke responds by rising to the top to eat. Luke never utters a word back.

"Paulie! Furio! Nana and Papa are here. Come say hello."
Our youngest one and her husband have cats.
They always converse with their cats, as most cat owners do.
Nana, my wife, talks to them too.
"Paulie … ah, here’s the big boy."
"Furio … Where are you? Come give Nana a kiss."
Paulie is … the bigger boy … but Furio … never gives her a kiss. Cats hardly ever do what they’re told.
The cats respond more to the sound of their box of food being shaken than any words you say to them. You shake … they come. Other than a “meow” Paulie and Furio never utter a word.

"Chief, sit! Chief, stay!"
Our second-born (by six minutes) and her husband own a dog. His name is Chief.
"Chief, speak!"
“Rrrrrrrrrruff!”
Okay. We’re moving a little further up the intelligence ladder here.
There’s only one way I can think of when we’d actually hear a recognizable and appropriate word come out of Chief’s mouth … tell Chief to speak, after asking him how conversations go between Papa and Nana.
Other than the word “rough” (and Chief spells it wrong) … they always talk to him and Chief never utters a word.

"Lucia, what are you trying to say. Please repeat that. "
Our first-born (by six minutes) and her husband gave us our first grandchild.
Her name is Lucia.
We all talk to Lucia and at seventeen-months-old she is beginning to talk back to us. We can understand a word or two but the communications between us are a bit frustrating to say the least. Her Nana’s conversational skills and Italian mannerisms definitely stand out.
We talk to Lucia and Lucia utters a few back to us. We just wish we understood her. Check out this “father-daughter conversation …

T-Shirt Friday on Monday

2008-12-29T13:52:00.007-05:00

This post is being published to play along with a dear fellow blogger, nursemyra. In wanting to stay healthy and happy, I followed her professional instructions for treating my underactive funny bone.
No ... not that one ... although it has been laughed at.
Anyway ... She has invited everyone to post his or her own T-shirt pic … and so as to keep with the theme she's chosen (above), I dug deep in the t-shirt draw and found this long retired favorite.

PLEASE NOTE
This license has expired a while ago and although it has never been renewed there are always the flashbacks. (smile/wink)

Papa and His Girls

2008-12-23T11:24:00.001-05:00

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

A Link Love Carol

2008-12-22T09:52:00.007-05:00

My friend M.I. over at Malicious Intent invited me to participate in a Christmas meme. The challenge was to write my own lyrics to the Twelve Days of Christmas ...
(Click Here for For Background Melody).
So with Stocking Stuffer Link Love ... Sing along ...

On the first day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
A place where I can be Practically!

On the second day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the third day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the fourth day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Four of Bee’s Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the fifth day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
All unmentioned Blogs,
Four of Bee’s Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the sixth day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Six Offended Bloggers,
All unmentioned Blogs,
Four of Bee’s Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the seventh day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Seven Catscratch Divas,
Six Offended Bloggers,
All unmentioned Blogs,
Four of Bee’s Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the eighth day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Eight Nurse Myra corsets,
Seven Catscratch Divas,
Six Offended Bloggers,
All unmentioned Blogs
Four of Bee’s Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the ninth day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Nine Depp Effects,
Eight Nurse Myra corsets,
Seven Catscratch Divas,
Six Offended Bloggers,
All unmentioned Blogs,
Four of Bee’s Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the tenth day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Ten Malicious Intents,
Nine Depp Effects,
Eight Nurse Myra corsets,
Seven Catscratch Divas,
Six Offended Bloggers,
All unmentioned Blogs,
Four of Bee’s Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the eleventh day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Eleven of VE’s Nonsense,
Ten Malicious Intents,
Nine Depp Effects,
Eight Nurse Myra corsets,
Seven Catscratch Divas,
Six Offended Bloggers,
All unmentioned Blogs,
Four of Bee’s Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

On the twelfth day of Christmas,
Google sent to me,
Twelve drinks at the Wild Onion,
Eleven of VE’s Nonsense,
Ten Malicious Intents,
Nine Depp Effects,
Eight Nurse Myra corsets,
Seven Catscratch Divas,
Six Offended Bloggers,
All unmentioned Blogs,
Four of Bee's Musings,
Three from Queen Goob,
Two Mental Poos,
And a place where I can be Practically!

Happy Holidays to All!

Secret Santa Picture Gift Swap

2008-12-17T23:45:00.009-05:00

This is my first blogging Christmas and thanks to the hard work and dedication of Bee, at Bee’s Musings, I received an invitation to join in on the “Secret Santa Can Suck It” picture gift swap.
Out of the hat came a fellow blogger’s name I had never heard of before, but I was excited to learn all I could to search for the perfect gift to give.

So I put on my hiking boots and headed out to Bum Fuque Egypt where this blogger resides. It didn’t take long to find my blogger, once I was in the Hillbilly sticks I asked directions and was told to follow the empty beer cans and they’d lead me right to the asshole. (BTW … this has already become an adventure for me. Just visiting my Secret Santa recipient has influenced my blogging style … two curses in the same paragraph is a new record for me.)

I learned quickly that my new blogger friend was in desperate need of help. From the far side of the chicken coop I witnessed a crafty old fox, a wounded duck and a maniacal woman with a gun. I hit the dirt and snake-crawled back to my computer.

I have got to come up with the perfect gift for a lady that calls herself an asshole, has a welcoming song on her blog about an asshole, loves sushi, loves vampires and shoots guns. DUCK!!! … No seriously, get up, she’s not here … but …I did decide on the perfect gift thanks to that DUCK!! WAIT! COME ON PEOPLE GET UP! I told you she's not here.

Meet Sassy … from none other than … Sassy & Opinionated. Sassy, right now is in the middle of a crisis. There’s a fox visiting her henhouse. Worst of all, the damn fox attacked and wounded her duck. This fox is very smart and has escaped the crosshairs of Sassy’s gun.

My Secret Santa gift to Sassy is a masterful plan, along with the backup needed to rid her of this fox. I’ve hired a team of specialists and spent time and money developing a master plan.

THE TARGET … MR. FOX

Michael? No … not that one.

Wait, yes! Hmmmm. Vivica? No. Sorry.

That's him! Caught in the act by one of our field photographers on our surveillance team, cleverly disguised so not to arouse suspicion.

THE DECOYS

Our wounded duck is currently in the hospital ...
... being cared for by the distinguished Dr. Quack

THE PLAN

The plan is to substitute a decoy in the barn …

We will also use a fake Dr. Quack. Again … so not to arouse suspicion.

Our professionally trained team members are strategically positioned in the field and are on high alert.

THE TRAINING

Be assured … Lots of preparation has gone into this operation, including and not limited to role playing techniques and battlefield advice from the distinguished General Fox Terrier.

Once the target is spotted we will spare no effort to complete our mission.
Air support will be brought in to dispose of the culprit and life will once again be good.

THE GIFT ... A SAFER HOMESTEAD

Sassy, don’t fear. All the horses, sheep, dogs, cats, chickens and “Ducky” will someday soon be safe from Mr. Fox.
So put down your gun, pop open a beer and gather the family to sing some asshole songs.
Your Secret Santa will take care of everything.

Oh ...I also got you a stocking stuffer.
Offering Rodney and Carrington songs on your blog like "Letter to My Penis" ...
I thought you might like to listen to something similar but different.
Turn up your speakers and ... Enjoy!

"Wishing a very joyful Merry Christmas to Sassy and her Family"
... Practically Joe

Hey! If you like to see what my Secret Santa gave to me ... CLICK HERE!

Getting in the Holiday Spirit

2008-12-15T17:45:00.006-05:00

It’s Sunday. It’s my day off.
While having my coffee, I visited some of my favorite blogs.
Suddenly I was feeling some Christmas spirit.
It happened while visiting Bee’s Musings.
She had organized a “Secret Santa Can Suck It!” community blog. Check it out! What a fun idea.
I felt invigorated. I was ready to confront my Christmas time duties. I agreed to do some Christmas shopping with my wife.
This made her happy.

First … because we needed a tree and my wife’s car has the biggest trunk, we decided to take her car. Inside the car …
"Joe, where are we going first?"
"Well, what’s on our list?"

I formulated a plan …
My walk around inspection of my wife’s vehicle alerted me to the fact that two of her tires were under-inflated. From the driver’s seat I immediately noticed that she needed gas. First stop would be a service station along our route.
We arrived at our first stop, filled her up and waited for the “FREE” air pump.
There was a car at the air pump and there seemed to be a problem. There were two women seeming to have difficulties. I watched as they took the air hose and proceeded to feed it through the driver’s door. I was perplexed. We were now waiting at the pump for 12 minutes to use the air hose. I wondered what could be wrong as I eyed one of the women re-enterer the gas station. I followed her in. She informed the clerk that the hose might be frozen so they ran it inside their vehicle and turned up the heat.
The clerk said … ”Huh?” (In his defense … it was 50 degrees outside.) She then said to the clerk …
"Look, something is wrong, Instead of filling our tire it took all the air out of it and now it’s flat."
Seeing the confused look on the clerk’s face, I stepped in and told the clerk not to worry … I will try to help the woman. This made the woman happy. (as well as the clerk)
What I found was that the women were not holding down the “start” button long enough for the air compressor to start. They allowed all the air to escape from their tire wile holding the non-operative nozzle down on the valve so all the air escaped. I properly started the compressor and filled their tire. I was their hero.
They obviously thought I was hot and the left smiling and very, very thankful.
My wife was not at all impressed.
I’m not even sure she was aware of what was going on … she was on her cell phone. I filled her tires and we proceeded to the mall.

At the mall, I immediately asked one of those mall cops on a Segway scooter for directions. He moved back and forth while studying his pocket map.
My wife commented … "I’d like one of those."
I made a mental note, but then quickly erased it as I pictured her on one.
At the first store, one that sold baby clothes, we had our first argument, which resulted in me waiting outside the shop. I people watched and had much fun.

We proceeded to the next mall where I was going to visit a watch repair shop owned by a guy who owed me money. (Maybe a story for another time.)
I replaced a battery on one watch and added a new watchband to another, absolutely free.
BOO-YA! ”Who knows how to shop, baby?”
Again, my wife was not impressed.

Next … It was off to Lowes. Why Lowes? I had a $10 off coupon.
That would make our Christmas tree cost $10 less.
Do I know how to shop or what!
Alas … They were all sold out.

Well … I guess we’ll head home.
Yeah right!
"I know a place we can buy a tree."
I followed her lead which took us off my planned route.
We purchased a “Charlie Brown” special for $25.

Well … I guess NOW we can head home.
"Joe, I’d really like a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee."
Of course! Without fail, anytime we hit the road, for whatever reason, she wants to stop for coffee along the way. I think she does it purposely to aggravate me.
Nah! She wouldn’t do that. Would she?

We finally made it home.
Shortly after our arrival our youngest and her husband came by to finish the job I had started when I fell and broke my ribs. Gratefully, my wife and I helped them.
I had to retrieve the notorious ladder out of the shed for them.
"Hello, Mr. Ladder, remember me?"
I swear Mr. Ladder chuckled.

So, that was my Sunday, my day off.
I hope you enjoyed it half as much as I did.
Soon, I should find out who I have as my “Secret Santa”.
Though I’m not a big fan of memes and such, I’m really looking forward to participating in Bee’s, “Secret Santa Can Suck It!” extravaganza.
I wonder who will get me as their Secret Santa? … Stay tuned.

Mr. Mucus Paid a Visit

2008-12-09T01:36:00.008-05:00

The little guy above, who some may know as “Mr. Mucus”, has caused me pain and money. How? Well, first of all, I’m sure he had something to do with my recent cough which just about killed me as my broken ribs were healing. Then, it was expensive getting rid of him.
No, I didn’t hire the Orkin Man, he admitted he was no match for Mr. Mucus.

So who is this Mr. Mucus?
He is like the black sheep of the mucus family. I’m sure you are familiar with some of the clan. Like cousin Phlegm who resides in your respiratory tract and his sister, Snot, who lives up your nose. The mucus family really has a lot of members and the live quietly in our bodies performing important jobs like keeping crap out of our lungs, filtering the air we breath and even helping to soften food making it easier to swallow. I’m sure you’re happy I shared that little tidbit.

Now from what I researched, Mr. Mucus is a bully and likes to wreak havoc when our bodies are weak. He likes to mess with Phlegm and loves to screw with Snot.
Sometimes he makes Snot sweat resulting in a continuous flow of liquid Snot running down our nostrils and on to our upper lip. Other times he causes Snot to dry up like an old piece of fruit, blocking the nasal passages and causing us to breathe through our mouths. None of the Mucus family hang out in our mouths unless we hack them up, then it's ... don't swallow ... spit! God knows what enters our lungs when we breathe through our mouths with none of the Mucuses around. During all this, cousin Phlegm is all eff’d up, dazed, confused and walking into lung walls. So we wheeze, cough, spit, sneeze, blow, sniffle and cry. Well, not me, but some people cry.

My personal problem with Mr. Mucus was this …
Just out of the hospital, I couldn’t breathe too well and I was chilled all the time.
Because I was cold, we ran the heat, which is a forced hot air system.
The hot air caused a low humidity level in our home.
Mr. Mucus dropped by to say hello.
My wife had me breathing steam from pots of boiling water with a dishtowel over my head. After a two-minute session, feeling like steamed broccoli, I was able to blow dried fruit out of my nose, making it easy to breathe again.

Mr. Mucus also tickled my throat and caused me with my broken ribs to flop around on the floor after every cough. We finally chased Mr. Mucus away after buying a $175 humidifier.

"Joe, it seems to be raining in the kitchen."
"I told you we bought a good one!"

Pain Killer or Killer Pain

2008-12-03T13:42:00.006-05:00

I guess for the longest time I was lucky.
For many years I lived without much physical pain.
My recent incident with a ladder disrupted that run.

A few Sundays ago … Pain said …
"Hello, Joe. Where have you been?"
Since then pain’s been like an unwelcomed guest who just won’t leave.
I’ve tried to be subtle.
"Honey, is it time for my pill yet?"
I tried being stern.
"OMG! What the hell did I do to deserve this pain? Kill me now!"

I never imagined what broken ribs would feel like.
At first it hurt when I took deep breaths, made a sudden movement or reached too high to grab the potato chips off the top shelf in the cabinet.
I was uncomfortable lying down on the bed so I had to sleep upright on the couch.
It was painful when I had to pee. Let me elaborate on that a bit. The actual peeing didn’t hurt but getting up from the couch to get to the bathroom did.

My biggest problem was not the broken ribs or the other bodily bruises resulting from my fall. The excruciating pain I had to deal with was caused by a stupid cough that developed … the next day.
Pain said …
"Hey, Joe. Let’s not waste those narcotics the hospital gave you … TAKE THIS!"
(… then suddenly in my throat) … Pain tickled me.
"Cough."
"Yeeeeeeow! $%#!&"
"Cough. Cough."
"Ohhhhhhh! Mutha-fudger! Ow! Ow! Ow!"

This went on for a week.
I think I broke a couple of ribs on my other side trying not to cough.

I would feel Pain start to tickle.
I’d hold my breath. I’d brace myself.
My wife readied herself as well. I think that each time I coughed she covered her eyes.
"Joe, hold a pillow. It will help!"
"Sweetie, I’ve got the damn pillow, it’s between me and the wall I’m running into. Damn! I can’t hold it any longer!"
"Cough."
"Ohhhhhhh! Fuque me! Ow! Eye-yie-eye!"
"Cough."
"Crap! Huff-huff-huff. Yikes! Jesus Christmas! Ow!"

Finally the cough has subsided.
Maybe now my ribs could finally heal.
Thank God I never had to sneeze!
Amen.

Ladder Safety 101

2008-11-23T13:20:00.010-05:00

Never push or pull anything sideways while on a ladder.
This puts a side load on the ladder and can cause it to tip out from under you.

No … That’s not really me on that stretcher … but …
If my wife wasn’t so busy being franticly worried she may have thought to run in the house, grab the camera and get a shot for my blog. Picture that poor bastard above wearing a sweatshirt and that would be me.

"Sir?" What is your name?
"Joe. My name is Joe."
This was really a good sign. This I knew.
Though the EMT didn’t know it. How could he?
It’s not like he knew my name was really Joe.
He just believed me. If I really didn’t remember my name, and guessed … "Rodney" … I think he would have from then on called me "Rodney".

"Rodney, can you tell me where it hurts?"
"All over, but mainly it’s my chest. It's sort of caved-in."
Now, I’m not kidding you on the caved in part.
I distinctly remember flying through the air, landing on top of the ladder, having the wind knocked out of me and not being able to breathe in any air. I thought it was over.
My wife was telling me to stay calm and breathe. She’d be right back after calling 911. Laying there waiting her return. I was finally able to take a breath. My mind then began to assess the damage done to the rest of me. My arms were folded in front of me as if they were trying to keep my chest from falling apart.
Hmmmm. My legs were moving. My head seemed okay. My arms were doing a good job holding my chest together. I wondered what would happen if I let go. I released the hold I had on myself and tried to look down. I had on a sweatshirt and really couldn’t see anything.
I felt around and then I realized the center of my chest was a deep cavity. The ladder had karate-chopped my chest.

"Joe, don’t worry. Stay still. An ambulance is on it’s way?"
I was still gasping for air.
"Honey, feel my chest. I think it caved in."
I could hear the sirens getting closer. She held my hand and we waited.

Back in the ambulance heading for the hospital ...
"Rodney, can you tell me what happened?"
Still gasping for air, I explained.
At the hospital, the usual questions...
What is your name?
Do you have an email address?
Who got your vote for president?
How attached are you to the sweatshirt we're about to cut in half?

There was an x-ray, a CAT scan and heroin (or it may have been morphine) I can’t remember which.
Then came the nurse administrator with the news.
"Joe. Your wife assured my your name isn’t Rodney and it looks like you have two broken ribs."
" OMG! I have two broken ribs? Now what?"
"We’re sorry, there is really nothing we can do for you."
"WHAT? Am I gonna die? You can’t do anything?"
"Rodney, Sorry ... Joe. Don’t be silly! We’re sending you home with a prescription for some pain medication and you should be fine in about eight weeks. Here is some info to take home with you. Take care. Buh-bye."
"Huh? What? Thank you."

Less than four hours after my fall, I was back at home.
I was doped up, in pain and behind on the yard work.
Since then, I’ve been lost in TV land.
I wish there was a screen saver for the eyes.
Everywhere I look there is the imprint of my flat-screen TV.

Hanging in My Closet

2008-11-07T01:24:00.003-05:00

"Good morning, Joe. Are you here to pick up?"
"Well, no, I am not. I picked up yesterday. But I do have a question."
Apparently, I have a problem.
No … not with my dry cleaners.
Mine is a mental problem, or so I’m led to believe.

"So, how can I help you, Joe? What is your question?"
“Can you tell me if the shirts I picked up yesterday were dry cleaned or laundered?”
"Sure, Joe. Just give me a second and I’ll look it up."
I usually have my shirts laundered instead of dry-cleaned.
I get them on a hanger and lightly starched.

“Joe, I checked and they were laundered as you like them.”
"They were? Hmmmmm … that’s odd."
"Odd, Joe, how so?”
So I explained.
When I took the newly cleaned shirts home and went to hang them with my other clean shirts, they were facing in the wrong direction. My shirts all get hung with the open part of the hanger hook facing the back wall of my closet making the fronts of all my shirts face to the right. The newest bunch all faced to the left. I could face the newest shirts to the right but then the hangers would be hooked on the closet rod toward me instead of towards the back wall like all the rest of the hangers in my closet including the ones holding my pants, sweaters and tee shirts.

And yes, I hang my tee shirts. Not the tee shirts I wear under my dress shirts, those are folded neatly and placed in the right forward corner of the second draw down of my dresser. The tee shirts in my closet are the ones that have words and pictures on them. The fronts of all those tee shirts face to the left (but that’s because they hang on the right side of the closet pole.) My wife has a difficult time hanging and facing my tee shirts properly when she pulls them from the clothes dryer. I often have to reverse them on the hangers before I bring them to my closet. I like to bring them up myself because she just hangs them wherever she finds room and sometimes with the hangers facing the wrong way making the fronts of the tee shirts face the wrong way and it all gets just too friggin’ confusing to me and stresses me out, then I complain and then she gets pissed and tells me I have a problem … but I don’t. I just like order … and I know she knows how to do it right so I accuse her of just trying to aggravate me and wonder what I did to deserve this stress and it goes right back to where she calls me nuts again. But I’m not!

"Joe, please, calm yourself."
"I’m sorry. So why are the shirts facing the wrong way?"
"Joe, we use two laundry companies. If you drop your shirts off on a Saturday, which you did, they go to a company that hangs them that way. I’m sorry, I will note that you don’t want them done by them anymore."
"You will? That would be great!"
"Anything else I can do for you, Joe?"
"Well, may I ask … Do many others complain when their shirts are hung in the wrong direction?"
"Actually, no Joe. You’re the only one."

Back at home, as I turn the six newly cleaned shirts around on their hangers to make everything right, I can’t help but ask myself …
"Hmmmm … I wonder if my wife put them up to this?"

Relationship Guru

2008-11-03T11:30:00.004-05:00

"Joe, can I ask your opinion on something?"
Recently a female friend of mine was having a bit of trouble understanding the man in her life. After discussing the situation with her female friends she discovered nothing new or helpful. Rather than just giving up, she felt it wise to consult a male friend for a different perspective.
I happened to be in the vicinity.
"Joe, I want you to be honest with me."
At this point I’m wondering if she realizes that what I have to offer is practically wisdom, (not quite wisdom … but practically wisdom).
Even with that in mind, I still agreed to answer her questions "honestly".
"Joe, How do I know if I'm the one for him?"
“Well, he's tolerated you so far, right?”
"Joe, How do I best care for him?"
“A little bit better than you would care for a kitten, puppy or your shoe collection.”
"No, Joe, I mean how do I get him to take better care of himself?"
“You can’t. Something has to hurt enough for him to care.”
"Joe, how do I know what he really wants?"
“It’s best to just ask him. But whatever he answers don’t believe him … Unless he says he wants either more sex or less questions.”
"Joe, how do I get his attention?"
“My wife usually hides the remote, grabs the mouse, calls my cell phone or just yells at me.”
"Joe, how do I get him to think about the future?"
"Marry him. He’ll certainly start contemplating the future. Be aware though, he will be worrying about it."
"Joe, how do I really know if he’s the one?"
"Well? Can you tolerate him?"
"Joe, is it possible you’re right?"
"Anything is possible when you don’t know what you’re talking about."
"Joe, I’m glad we had this conversation. Thank you."
"Oh, please! Don’t mention it. I mean it ... to anyone."

Questioning Tourists

2008-10-30T10:34:00.008-04:00

CLICK HERE TO READ ABOUT THE SALEM WITCH TRIALS
“Hello, welcome to our restaurant. Would you like a table for two?”
“Oh, I was wondering if we could ask you a question.”
“Sure. My name is Joe. How can I help you?”
"Well, first of all, may my wife use your restroom?
“Certainly. Miss … it’s straight down on your left.”
“Go ahead Judith, I’ll be right here waiting for you. So … Joe, is it?”
“Yes sir. That’s correct. I’m Joe.”
"Yes, so can you tell me … back in 1692, were there any twin witches?"
“I’m sorry sir, I don’t know the answer to that. Why do you ask?”
“Well, Joe, because I was thinking if there were twin witches back then, they wouldn't have been able to tell which witch was which.”
“Ah … that’s very funny sir. You got me.”
“Oh good, here comes my wife. One other question?”
“Sure. Why not? Go ahead.”
“May I also use your restroom?”
“No you may not! Ha! Just kidding! Go ahead.”

Now the wife …
“Thank you, mister Joe. Did my husband tell you his stupid twin witch joke?”
“Well, yes miss, he did. He is quite the jokester.”
“I hate that he jokes about such things.”
“So you know the seriousness of it all?”
“Well, yes Joe, I do. I’ve read a lot about the subject.”
“Have you?”
“I have. Do you know researchers have found a common link while studying the intelligence of the Salem witches?
“No miss, I don’t think I’ve ever read anything like that.”
“It’s true … They were all good spellers.”
*crickets*
“Oh, here comes my husband. Well, thanks again, Joe. Buh-bye!”
“Hey! Wait! You haven’t even looked at our menu!”
Freakin’ tourists!

Bee's Musings Photo Post

2008-10-28T01:20:00.004-04:00

Bee from Bee's Musings sent out a request.
The idea is to post a picture I decided not to use on a post.
This was close to halloween so I tucked the picture between some October posts.

Scary Bikers

2008-10-24T22:09:00.024-04:00

Guess where the 2008 MDA Halloween Motorcycle Run ran through...
That's right! Salem Massachusetts.
Our restaurant was packed with bikers.
The last time I saw that much leather was at a Dominatrix party back in the summer of 1973.
Here are a few pics of those in attendance.

Me Yelling: "Hey! Where's your buccaneers?"
Him Yelling Back: "Under my buccan helmet jerk-off!"

These poor bikers never finished.

In Our Bedroom

2008-10-18T12:08:00.005-04:00

“Alright honey, before you come into the bedroom I want you to close your eyes and don’t peek.”
“Joe, I’m so excited. My eyes are closed. Am I close enough yet?”
“Yes dear, two more steps. Good. Now keep your eyes closed. I want you to feel it first.”
"Okay Joe. Guide my hand. I promise not to peek … Oh my!"
“Well, how does it feel? Press down on it if you like.”
“Wow, Joe, it’s really hard. It’s not like it was before.”
“I would say everything in the ad was true. It should stay hard for a long time. Are you ready to open your eyes to see it?”
"Yes, can I open them now?"
“Sure, go ahead and open them now … Ta-Da!”
“Joe, it looks really big. It definitely seems bigger.”
“Well hon, you’ll surely be sitting a bit higher than you did before.”
“Joe, I can’t wait until tonight. I want to get on it now.”
“Sweetie, you don’t have to wait. Climb right on top of it and try it out.”
“OMG, This feels unbelievable! I love it!”
“I agree honey, this feels fantastic.”
“Joe, I want to try it on my side and on my stomach.”
“Of course sweetie, any positions you want.”
“Joe, I’m really glad we saw that Sleepy's ad.”
“Me too, honey. Me too.”

We just love our new Simmons Beautyrest Firm Plush Mattress.
Thank you Christopher Columbus for generating that half-price sale.

No Glass

2008-10-11T00:44:00.003-04:00

My wife is very much set in her ways.
Whenever she feels like a beer ... her request is always the same.
"I'll have a Bud Light bottle ... ah ... and no glass"
Why won't she take the damn glass?
Why must she insist on drinking from the bottle?
Why always Bud Light?

Where I work ... we sell only our own brewed beers.
We go there for dinner.
"I'll have a Bud Light bottle ... ah ... and no glass."
Jeeeezus! Is she kidding me?
"Honey ... We make our own beer here."
"Then I'll have whatever is close to a Bud Light bottle ... ah ... and no glass."
"Honey ... all the beers are on tap ... there are no bottles."
She gets upset and angry.
"Then I guess I'll have some friggin' wine! WTH! ... ah ... and no glass."
*HELP!*

Zombies for Dinner

2008-10-06T16:29:00.009-04:00

“Hello. And how are you guys doing today?”
“We’re dying to eat. Do you serve zombies?”
“No, I’m sorry. But we do serve burgers and pizza.”
So, it's begun ... October in Salem, Massachusetts. Yesterday more than a hundred zombies walked the streets of Salem.
What’s next?
Well, while witches are certainly not uncommon in Salem ...
Yesterday … zombies.
Tomorrow ... vampires and goblins and ghosts, oh my!

Peter, one of our waiters, making friends with zombies.

Looks like more to come ...

Feeling Lucky

2008-10-01T03:28:00.010-04:00

“Hello handsome. Where ya goin'?”
“Huh? Do I know you?”
“Ya buyin’ me somethin’ good?”
“I’m sorry. I really don’t think we know each other.”
So, I stopped to get gas on my way home from work … I went into the mini-mart because I was feelin’ lucky. I’m standing by the newspaper racks, coin in one hand and a Lottery Scratch Ticket in the other. As I wished for a million, I began to scratch. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turn around … and there she is.

“Oh baby, don’t you remember me?”
I stepped back, looked at her intently … but … nothing.
“Sorry. I don’t. What’s your name?”
“What’s my name? Ooooo baby … I really like you. Buy me somethin'.”
I look around. What the hell is this? Is she putting me on?
Something’s not right. I detected a faint smell of alcohol. I know it wasn’t from me. Maybe she’s drunk?
“Lady, you okay? I’m sure we don’t know each other. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”
“No, baby. I know you. Let’s go out.”
First of all she wasn’t my type. I don’t even have a type. My wife won’t let me have a type. And … Go out? Go out where?
“Listen. I don’t know you, and I can’t go out. I have to go home.”
“Okay, baby. Let’s go home. We can have some fun. I like you. Buy me somethin’.”

What the hell does she want me to buy her?
She wants to come home with me?
Yeah, that'll go over big.
”Look who I brought home honey.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know … but she likes me.”

Now, I’m looking for the store clerk who is busy with a customer. As soon as he was free I walked over to him with my admirer close behind. I stop … She bumps up against me grabbing my arm. I wiggle away giving her a stern look.
She doesn’t seem to mind.
“Sir, do you know this woman?”
He looks at me without answering and just shrugs his shoulders.
Then she steps forward and says to the clerk …
“He’s my baby, ain’t he cute? We’re going home now after he buys me somethin’ … ain’t that right baby?”
The clerk looks back at me again … and again … shrugs his shoulders. I return the shrug and then turn to my new friend and say …
“Yeah baby! That’s right … Now go pick out whatever you want.”
She looks at me ever so lovingly and says …
“Okay baby. Now you wait right here. I’ll be right back.”
She headed down one of the aisles.
I headed out the door.
As I pulled out of the station I looked back inside.
She was talking to the clerk …
He was shrugging his shoulders.

Ironically … This all happened because I was feeling lucky.
And … No … I didn’t win anything.

What to Do

2008-09-24T03:59:00.006-04:00

“Joe, What do you feel like doing today?”
“I don’t know, honey. What do you feel like doing?”
I’ve been very busy at work as you may already know. We’ve attended weddings the past two weekends. A day in front of the TV, just relaxing, was at the top of my list of thing I’d like to do. But I know better than to show my cards too early.

“Joe, I have a few ideas. Would you like to hear them?”
“I’m not sure. Will I like your ideas?”
You see what I just did? I answered her question with a question. I used to be corrected all the time for doing that. But I’m not little JoJo any more. I’m setting her up to re-think her ideas before she expects me to answer. Hopefully she will not end up suggesting the things she knows I don’t care to do.

“Joe, stop answering my question with a question. Hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to do that? Now, I would really like to get those blinds hung in the bedroom.”
Crap! … not those stupid blinds. I hate this shit. I’d have to use a ladder, use friggin’ screwdrivers … I’ll have to make holes for screws so I’ll need that pointy thing … I’ll have to struggle because all the work is up high … so I know my arms will get tired … I'll have to measure stuff … line things up … I always screw these projects up and then have to do it over and over again … never getting it right … settling for a half ass job because I don’t know what I’m doing. And did I really type s-h-i-t? I need to turn this around. Ive got to come up with something quick.

“Hon, it’s nice out. How about going one last time to the beach before it gets too cold?”
“Hmmmm? Yes, that's a good idea, Joe. We can go for a nice long walk.”
Long walk? I was thinking more like lounging by the water … doing the Sunday crossword … napping … that kind of day at the beach. Jeez, doesn’t she remember the open bar at the wedding and all those rum and cokes? I need to recuperate not exercise.

“Sweetheart, how about we catch up on some shows that we DVR’ed?”
“Joe, how about we catch up on the laundry?”
“Honey bunch, why don’t we relax and later go out for dinner?”
“Joe, why don't we go food shopping and then cook something?”
“Sugerplum, we can go for a drive.”
“Joe, my love, we can clean the house.”
“Baby doll, we could cuddle on the couch.”
“Cuddle? That's a great idea! And ... you can watch football.”
“Muffin, We can … huh? … What? … Cuddle and football?”
“Yes Joe ... After I help you put up the blinds.”
“And we can order pizza too?”
“If we get them both up without you breaking anything.”
Damn she’s good!

Busy Busy Busy

2008-09-20T10:47:00.008-04:00

“Joe, where have you been?”
Don,t worry. Everything is fine.
I've just been working long hours getting ready for this ...

And them ...

I expect to see these lovely ladies as well ...

We're preparing to deal with the likes of these ...

You can see we're really into the spirit as well.
This is inside our restaurant.

Here's a little more ...

The next month is going to be a tough one.
Wish me luck.

Coming Full Circle

2008-09-13T11:32:00.008-04:00

“Dad, the baby was up all night … again!”
“Ma, all day long, she hangs on my leg and I can’t get anything done.”
“Dad, she won’t stop crying, what do you think it is?”
“Ma, what did you do when we wouldn’t eat?”
Ah, the great circle of life, it took so long to get here.

“Joe, you know, God doesn’t make grown-ups, God makes babies.”
Everybody loves babies. I’m not wrong making that statement, am I? Sure, some people are more excited about the thought of having kids than others, but really … aren’t babies adorable? I’ve yet to see one that isn’t. And don’t they always smell so good? Well … Almost always that is. I love it when they look up at you and smile. The best is when they grab a hold of your finger. (Although, my kids later learned not to fall for that one.) Babies are so tiny and dainty. They have little itsy-bitsy fingers and toes … little rubbery arms and legs … and very small noses (probably for their own survival). Babies are born little angels. So then … what happens to them?

“Honey, we did our best. There is no such thing as completely childproofing your house.”
I was really missing the days when my kids were babies. Some of my fondest memories are of them being toddlers. Our first experience with children came in the form of “double-trouble”. There was no fighting over who would hold the baby. My wife and I had one apiece. But when they became toddlers, they defined the phrase “the terrible twos”! We were both “on duty” at all times. Suddenly it was like there were two of us and twenty of them. It was a job keeping them out of harms way. It wasn’t too bad during the crawling stage, but when they took to walking, we’d have to split ourselves in two when they headed in different directions. And if I recall correctly their first words were … “Me too!” That of course is because everything we did … we had to do twice. They made sure of that!

“Kids really brighten a household. They never turn off any lights.”
During their school age years my kids were very much like me. Come to think of it, that could be the other way around, my wife still yells at me for not turning off the lights. But seriously, the pre-teen years are full of surprises. Parents really learn a lot at this stage. We come to realize things like … when you hear the toilet flush and then the words, "uh-oh!", it’s already too late. You learn that Play-Doh and microwave ovens should never be used in the same sentence. Super Glue is forever. And back then (yes I’m old) … VCRs do not eject Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwiches, even though TV commercials showed they did. What we’ve learned was that a good sense of humor was essential for getting you through this stage of your child’s growth.

“Joe, remember adolescence? That’s the age when children try to bring up their parents.”
It doesn’t really matter how experienced you are by the time your child becomes a teenager. It’s during a child’s adolescent years when most parents turn gray. It’s the age at which children stop asking questions because they know all the answers. And parents, thinking they got a handle on parenting at this point, learn yet a few more interesting things. Like cleaning the house while teenagers are at home is like trying to shovel the driveway during a snowstorm. And they learn there are three ways to get something done … do it yourself, hire someone to do it, or you could forbid your teenager to do it. A friend of mine summed it up nicely … Raising teenagers is like nailing Jell-O to a tree.

Don’t you agree … having kids is fun? I'd really like to know.

“Honey, don’t you wish we had more children?”
“Sweetie, Don’t you remember all those times we told our kids … to just wait until they have kids? Let’s just be thankful we’re still around to enjoy the show.”

The Look of Worry

2008-09-09T01:37:00.007-04:00

“What’s wrong Joe? You look a bit distant. Something happen at work today.”
“No honey, it’s nothing. I’m okay.”
“Joe, you’re not okay. Something’s up ... what is it?”
The only advice I can offer to myself is practically wisdom at best, while words of inspirational wisdom coming from old African proverbs suggest that ”It’s not work that kills, but worry.”
“Joe, cut the crap! Tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Sweetie, I just told you, everything is fine.”
“If it’s not work, is it about bathroom? Cause I just about had it with that shower. Did you call the landlord today?”
Hmmm. Oh yeah, I was supposed to make that call today. She’s really pissed because not only are the loose tiles in the shower causing it to rain in the downstairs family room but when she was showering the damn heavy porcelain soap dish became unattached from the wall nearly smashing her foot.
“Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Did you make the friggin’ call? About the shower? What’s wrong with you?”
Why the hell does she think something’s wrong? Does she think she has some special powers? She thinks she knows me. She thinks she knows everything. Well she doesn’t! I’m just fn fine!
“See?”
“See, what?”
“It’s written all over your face. It’s bad. It’s really bad. Did someone die? You’re afraid to tell me, right? Did someone die?”
“No! Honey, no. Nobody died. At least nobody I know.”
“Then what is it? I can tell when you’re worried about something. Talk to me. I’m sure it’s not as bad as you think. Sometimes you worry about nothing.”
“Really, hon, it’s no big deal. It’s nothing.”
“I knew it! What’s wrong? You better tell me right now!”
“Alright! Alright! Jeez! I’ll tell you.”
“Okay then, tell me. What’s bothering you?”
“It’s my blog. It’s being reviewed. I’m afraid they won’t like it. Sometime’s they’re mean … I asked for it a while ago … Since then I keep going back … Every day … To see the reviews of other blogs. I admit it. I’m worried. I’m worried about what I’m about to receive. This could be disastrous. I may end up scarred for life. I … I … ”
“WAIT! Hold on! This is about your friggin’ blog?”
“Well? Yeah. Aren’t you listening? They may not like it.”
“Joe, For heaven sakes! Grow some canolis. And stop scaring me half to death. Stupid blog.”
**crickets**
“You know, you could be a little more understanding.”
“Stupid blog.”

Ask And Ye Shall Receive (gulp!)

In the Toilet

2008-09-05T23:18:00.010-04:00

“Joe, I think there’s some confusion over by the restrooms.”
“Thank you, mister bar patron, I’ll look into it right away.”
During the past week my stress level has risen a bit and the reason for the spike appears to have “toilet” written all over it. Yes, what I’m saying is that it has been a bad week for the bathrooms, johns and restrooms in my life.
You may ask …
“Joe, what do you mean when you say these lavatories are part of your life?”
“Well, inquisitive reader …”, I’d say, “ … they are, at least these, in particular.”
The ones I speak of, I enter, for one reason or another, at least once a day, more often than not, a few times a day.
“So, Joe, when you say bathrooms, how many are you talking about?”
“Good question, unknown person who is asking, I would be talking about seven different bathrooms.”
Yes, that’s right. I have seven different bathrooms in my life right now that I personally oversee. I have a responsibility to make sure they are in tip-top working condition on a daily basis. Seven! Three at home and four at work.
Oh, and that’s not all. Two of these seven bathrooms account for six commodes and two urinals. You may have guessed, these two bathrooms are none other than the men’s and lady’s restrooms for our customers at the restaurant where I work. Many a person’s private parts have closely inspected these premises of which I speak. It’s not an easy job making sure that all feel comfortable when they visit. Maintenance for the expected optimum experience in these essential rooms is challenging indeed.
“Excuse me, Joe. Are you kidding? It’s the head you’re talking about, right? What’s the big deal?”
“What’s the big deal? I’ll tell you, man who is probably homeless, the big deal is a matter of dignity. That’s right. Dignity.”
Let’s face it, no matter what type of living quarters you occupy it is almost certain you have or at least share a bathroom. And just like any other room in the house, you care for it. You clean it. You decorate and furnish it. You occupy it for deeply personal reasons. You share it with other family members and visitors. It’s an important room. It needs to function properly. It needs to be fully operational at all times. Without it, you would feel less than human.
“Alright, Joe, so you are in charge of the toilets. We get it. So what’s the big stressful problem?”
“I’m glad you asked, inquisitive participant in my story, I’ll be quick and brief in my explanation.”
So it all started in the lady’s room where someone had to cover the toilet seat with toilet paper before they sat their ass down to do whatever and then decided they would tidy up by pushing all the paper from the seat into the toilet along with whatever else they already deposited and flushed it all down but it didn’t go down but instead overflowed all over the floor. The next female patron who knew enough not to use the stall with all the dark water spreading out from under it decided to use the stall at the other end of the room because the next stall she looked in on was already filling to the top with backed up water and after using the only toilet with less water than a swimming pool she thoughtfully flushed her whatever which now came back at her like a tsunami and so she fled the scene yanking up her pant legs and within a few minutes water crept like the blob from under the lady’s room door until it soaked the rug in the hall. Did I mention I had to attack the problem with an old plunger with no success? (G-g-g-gag!) Soon the men’s room bowls were filling and joined the party. For the rest of the shift we had to march customers through the kitchen and up to the employee bathroom. Then later in the week we closed down the lady’s room to gut it out and remodel it resulting in the commotion mentioned earlier when we had to make the men’s room a unisex bathroom resulting in long lines and embarrassing moments when parents escorting young daughters into the men’s room had to answer questions like … “How do you pee in that, mommy?” … And would you believe that some women were mortified to have to use a men’s room while other women admitted to never, ever having to step into one before? And then the bathroom upstairs had a problem where the water wouldn’t stop while refilling the tank and I had to reach in the tank to repair a broken chain link. And at home the upstairs shower is seeping into the loose tiles in the shower causing water to drip down from the ceiling in the downstairs bathroom causing two bathroom problems at once. And then the …
“Whoa! Whoa! Joe. Take a breath. Hold up a second. Calm yourself down. Stop already.”
“Oh, thank you, reader who recognizes the signs of oncoming heart attacks, I appreciate you looking out for me.”
Anyway, There’s more work to be done, both at work and at home to make my facilities most welcoming. But, it's my nature to look at the bright side. At least I don’t work in the restaurant shown below.

Now, if you would please excuse me ...
Got to go. Got to go. Got to go go go!

I'm an Adbay Oybay

2008-08-30T00:40:00.008-04:00

“Joe, what is that? Is that a dirty picture?”
“Honey, no, of course not.”
“It looks like it to me. Is that for your blog?”
“Uhm, well, yeah, I was thinking of using it. It’s an ad for a new type of drink.”
“Right, uh-huh, it’s an ad. Suck and Blow, uh-huh right.”
“Really, hon, it’s from one of my restaurant trade magazines.”
“I can’t believe you’re going to put dirty pictures on your blog like those others I saw.”
I recently introduced her to some fellow bloggers, just to see her reaction. At one point I clicked over to ... ATTENTION!!! ... THIS IS PRACTICALLY AN ALERT CONCERNING THE FOLLOWING LINK ... CAUTION!!! ... ADULT HUMOR!!! ... CAUTION!!! ... I REALLY MEAN IT ... CAUTION!!! ... PROCEDE AT YOUR OWN RISK ... CAUTION!!! ... YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED ... CAUTION!!! (I promise that was the last CAUTION!!! ... oops! sorry) ... Infomaniac. Her jaw dropped as we scrolled down to the “Filthy Friday” posts. I never realized her eyes could pop open like they did. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. I explained the blog was different from mine because the blogger, who is from Canada and calls herself “MJ”, uses a lot of pictures to tell her stories. Most of them are a bit ... risque.
“Are these supposed to be funny?”
I couldn’t keep myself from laughing, mostly because of the expression on her face.
“Well, yeah, you don’t see the humor in these pictures? You have to read her words as well, so you can understand the pictures and her stories.”
“I just can’t believe them. Are they real people?”
“Of course they are honey.”
“Are these pictures of her and her friends?”
“ Well, no. Well, I don’t think so. She probably gets these pictures from somewhere on the Internet.”
“So now you’re going to use dirty pictures too? Please don’t. I like the way you’ve been doing it."
“ No, sweetie. Honest. I was going to write about something I read in a work magazine about a bar drinking gadget called Suck and Blow and the picture just shows two girls using the Suck and Blow tube.”
“Well, I don’t think you should change the way you’ve been doing your blog. You don’t need to be using sex to make yourself interesting."
“But, honey, what’s so wrong to once in a while show another part of my personality, you know, not the funny part but the, well, the “bad boy” side of me?”
“Hahahahahahaha … Oh, Joe … Hahahahahahaha … The “bad boy” side … see, that’s where you’re interesting … the funny side. When did you become a “bad boy”? Hahahahahaha.”
“Ooday ouyay owknay utwhay I’m ayingsay?”
“Huh? What?”
“I’ll owshay ouyay adbay oybay!”
“What? I’m not playing this game with you! I’m going back upstairs! You be dirty if you want to!”
“Ootay adbay! I essguay eelshay evernay owknay ootay ickclay on isthay inklay."

My Favorite Olympic Moment

2008-08-22T14:34:00.007-04:00

I cannot hold out any longer.
Up until now I have not mentioned the word “Olympics” in any of my posts. Now, there is finally an Olympic moment I love that's worth sharing with my readers and friends.

Please watch this short video to the very end so that you may truly savor this outstanding feat of skill and endurance.

I give you … The 2008 Beijing Olympics’ Best …

I Blame Led Zeppelin

2008-08-20T12:00:00.006-04:00

“Dad, why do you have the TV so loud?”
“Sorry, that’s you mother. She can’t hear a thing.”
“Uhm? Dad … Ma’s not even here right now.
I blame it on Led Zeppelin.
My hearing is shot! It had to be from all the rock concerts I attended back in the late sixties and early seventies. My wife’s hearing is just as bad. Honest. Sometimes a normal conversation between us sounds very much like a shouting match. When we watch TV the volume is always up. It’s one of the major reasons we do our best to isolate ourselves in single-family dwellings rather than condos or apartments. We would definitely be voted off the island for noise pollution.
“Waitress! I would like to see a manager!”
“Hi, my name is Joe and I’m the manager on duty here tonight. Did you ask to see me?”
“I just want to say it is very noisy in your restaurant. All I can hear is that rock music. We just came back from a funeral.”
“Oh sir, I am very sorry. I’ll try turning up the volume and I will see what I can do about that back urinal right away.”
I often find myself nodding my head or fake giggling at some comment that I clearly did not hear. If they’re smiling … I’m smiling right back. If their not smiling … I’m asking for an audio replay.
If you were to check my DVR remote closely you’d discover that the rewind and play buttons are the most worn. The wife and I continuously go back to hear something over and over again until at least one of us got it. Truthfully, she’s worse.
“Joe! Stop what did she just say?”
“I’m not sure. Who knows? I didn’t catch it either.”
“Then play it back.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t so important. Do I have to?”
“Joe! Are you friggin’ watching this with me, or what? How can you enjoy this if you don’t know what’s going on? Now please play it back. I think she said she’s going to marry Kyle.”
“Fine! Give me the remote.”
Stop. Rewind. Fast Forward. Stop. Play.
“There! She said not to worry that she’ll carry that pile. And who the hell is Kyle anyway?”
So I was fortunate to grow up in Boston where many legends made their debuts. I saw Led Zeppelin in 1969 at a small club called The Boston Tea Party during their first US Tour. I also had the opportunity to see them as a “super group” each year they returned to Boston. One time I even had first row tickets on the floor when they played at the Boston Garden. It was a far out groovy scene, man! I left that night wearing Plant and Page sweat.
“Joe! I'll be right back. I'm driving to the store.”
That's my wife. She's upstairs yelling that someone's arriving at the door so I have to go. But first, Check this out.
If you like Led Zeppelin and you like The Beatles and you like the song Stairway to Heaven … then you may like this ...

Practically a Hundred

2008-08-15T14:04:00.007-04:00

“Joe, Why so blue? You should be happy today.”
“Sorry, hon. I’m just feeling old.”
Don’t worry. I’m just going through a temporary funk. I recently had a birthday. Okay, it was yesterday. The wife surprised me by taking time off from work and knowing me so well, she suggested a day at the beach. We relaxed enjoying the peaceful quiet offered to anyone willing to walk for twenty-five minutes down the shoreline. We find that puts us a safe enough distance away from anyone toting a kid or a boom box. Just us old fogies here!
“So, Joe, you caught up to me again.”
Each year she just can’t wait to say that to me. She is sixty-two days older than me and I relish those sixty-two days while I can say I’m married to an older woman and tease her about her being older than me. On her birthday I said …
“Wow, honey. You’re fifty-seven years old now. How does it feel being that old?”
“Shut-up, stupid. Answer that yourself in a month.”
“Uhm? Excuse me! That’s two months and two days, sweetie!”
I think the mild gloom I’m experiencing is because I’m so close to being sixty. I didn’t mind turning thirty, forty or even fifty, but for some reason being sixty sounds really old. Even the AARP, who has been bugging me for years to join their club, is advising me to hurry up because time is running out.
“Joe, lighten up, we’re really not that old.”
“We’re not?”
As soon as I got home I started up the old “Brain Train” to take a trip down memory lane. “Alllllllllllllll Aboard!”
So here we go. Search on “1951”, the year I said my first word … “Bwaaaaahhh!” Translation … “Hello, I’m practically, Joe.” Mom and dad hadn’t named me yet.
(Click.) Oh God! I arrived before hair spray, frozen foods, credit cards, ballpoint pens, radar and digital clocks.
Here's a link to 1950's phrases. (Click.)
When I was a kid we spoke a whole different language from kids today. Here are a couple of examples.
2008: “Wa’sup dawg? Lets chill at your crib with those crazy-ass biaches yo! Aight?”
1951: “Hey daddy-o. Let’s find some hip chicks and go to your pad.”
2008: “I’ll take my 45 and put a cap in your ass!”
1951: It doesn’t even translate. A 45 was a vinyl record. We did, however, play cowboys and Indians with cap guns but with pretend horses not donkeys.
(Click.) Hmmm … here’s a site explaining how the moral values of people living back in the fifties differ from today. It says here that most couples back then didn’t live together until after they got married. Society provided children with a happier childhood, producing happier children who in the process became more responsible adults. And, authority was respected and appreciated; this included the police, presidents, and teachers. Can we state in fact that here, in 2008, we have progressed? It was like another world back then.
Crap! This is bringing me down again. Quick, let's click on that link. (Click.)
Wow! A gallon of gasoline was only twenty-five cents and a Chevy Coupe sold for $600. Yearly salaries averaged less than $3000. Cigarettes were twenty cents a pack. Nobody knew the dangers of smoking. Pantyhose weren’t invented. Women wore silk stockings with garter belts. (Click.) Hmmm … what do we have here?“I see you’re feeling better, Joe.”
”Oops!” *Startled … Brain Train comes to screeching halt! (Click. Click.)
“Hon, really, blogging keeps me feeling young.”

Google Saved the Day!

2008-08-10T12:13:00.011-04:00

“Yo.Yo.Yo. Manager Joe. What’s the dillio?”
“Hello there, dude, what’s happenin’?”
Okay, so maybe at my age I’m more likely to break a hip than to be hip. But, I try. As a restaurant manager at a location close to a college, I interact with many customers, as well as employees, who are less than half my age. I really have little problem communicating with these kids (unless they are working in the kitchen, but that’s a story for another time). But sometimes a word comes out in conversation (like badunkadunk) that has me running to the office computer and logging on to my friend and translator The Urban Dictionary.
Thank the Lord for the Internet! I hated carrying that tattered pocket dictionary around and having to continuously sing the alphabet to myself just to get to the right page to locate a word. Not to mention it was very uncomfortable especially when sitting down. Fast forward to the future. Now, I have arsenal at my fingertips, whether I be in front of a computer or having to whip out my high-tech cell phone for the times I’m not.
“Sir, besides that I'm known to be an uxorious husband”
“Stop! What did you say?”
For that word I used one of the big guns, Merriam-Webster Online. With one extra click at this website you can hear the audio pronunciation of the word. Well … Can you pronounce uxorious?
“… He’s been hospitalized due to the scratchident.”
"Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. Was he a winner?"
Sometimes you come across a really, really rare word. Let’s take for example the word “scratchident”. There was no dictionary on line giving meaning to this word. Even my spell-checker is saying “WTF?”
All that was left for me to do was hope for results as I pulled all the stops and Googled it.
Showing only one link in the results … Google saved the day! … Check it out!

Shopping with the Wife

2008-08-05T13:16:00.009-04:00

“Joe, we need to do the food shopping.”
“Okay, I’m off Tuesday, I’ll do it then.”
“We should do it today. We’re out of a lot of stuff and the kids are coming for dinner tomorrow.”
“All right, all right! I’ll do it then! I’ll get ready and go.”
“Joseph Anthony! Don’t get snippy with me!”
“Mom??? Mom??? Is that you??? Is my mom here???”
“Look, Joe. I’m going to the supermarket. I didn’t say for you to go. I can do it myself.”
“Fine! I’ll come with you. Let’s just not take all friggin’ day.”
Uhm … What just happened? Well, I’ll tell you.
I ~~pull my hair out hate~~ get frustrated shopping with my wife. She drives me insane. She also, sometimes, drives other shoppers insane. Apparently.
I try my best to plan a time to shop when I’m off and she’s working.
I’m a good food shopper. Market Basket is one of my favorite places to visit. I go in. I get what we need. I go home. And I have lots of fun while I’m there.
I get to people watch.
“Excuse me ~~Miss Oblivious~~ mamm, I think one of your little ones is whip creaming aisle seven.”
I have fun placing odd items in other people’s carts when they’re not looking.
Big Burly Muscular Guy: “Hey, what the hell are these panty liners doing in my cart!”
Me: “Tee-hee” (As I deviously blend into the background helping the woman, who I think lives in the shoe, pull down one of her caboodle of monsters kids who was hanging from the third shelf in the same aisle.)
I like taking a dozen consecutive numbers at the deli counter and watch everyone look at each other as each number is called.
Anyway, I have fun when I go to the supermarket alone.
Over the years, my wife has witnessed my shenanigans and has become, let’s say, no longer amused.
It used to be fun with her along.
Like when I purposely grabbed someone else’s half-full shopping cart and nonchalantly stopped next to her, stepped away and then watched her push it along down two or three aisles placing new items into it.
“Joe, very funny! Now where’s our cart?”
Then there was the time I played cat and mouse with her for about ten minutes, laughing so hard my side hurt, as I kept guiding her to find me over our cell phones. “Joe, Are you freakin’ kidding me!! Where the hell are you?” Too funny!
So why don’t I like to shop with the woman I love?
We get out of the car … she has to always grab the first cart she sees in the parking lot.
“Uhm, honey ... there’s a thousand more inside.”
She picks up ten of everything before she puts one in the cart.
“Oh, good sweetie ... you found one you like.”
She reads labels.
“Hon! There’s the Healthy-Heart logo … what else do you need to know?”
She checks dates.
“Uhm, Domenica … stop moving around all the sushi containers. You’ve already reached the bottom of the pile and the Japanese guy is staring at you … and he’s not smiling.”
She never picks an item sitting on the front of a shelf.
“Geez sweetheart ... be careful, there may be spiders back there!”
And then there’s this …
Remember I said she drives other shoppers crazy too?
Well, she recently told us (our daughters and I) a story about some “crazy” woman at the supermarket. She was shopping alone for a few items, one of which was a loaf of Italian bread.
She explains how this “mad-crazy” woman came over to her as she was choosing the right loaf to take home.
Crazy woman: “What are you doing?”
My wife: (innocently) “I’m picking a loaf of bread.”
Crazy woman: “Oh, I can help you with that.”
My wife: (cautiously) “No thanks, I can do it myself.”
Crazy woman: (now right in my wife's face) “No, I insist! I’ll find you a good one!” The woman begins to pick up every loaf of bread, gingerly squeezing each one a few times repeating over and over again … “Is this a good one? … Is this a good one? … Is this a good one?”
My wife: (confused) “Look, lady! Thanks, but I don’t need your help. I’m taking this one.”
So she tells us this story, amazed at the audacity some people exhibit to total strangers. She was convinced the woman belonged in the funny-farm.
I’m thinking … the poor lady. She was “mad” all right. She was most likely watching my wife for ten minutes picking up every loaf trying to select the one she wanted, while she (the poor woman) was waiting her turn hoping my wife would leave at least one loaf untouched.
After discussing the story we were all convinced my wife drove the “crazy” woman over the edge.
All these things add up to this … she adds an extra hour to every shopping trip and aggravates me (and others) … and when I go food shopping with her I can’t wait to get to the check-out line.
Beatrice: “Sir, would you like paper or plastic?”
Me: “Oh Beatrice, would you let your manager know I looked up and down the stationary goods aisle and couldn’t find any invisible ink?”
My wife: “Joe, go stand over by the door!”
“Yes, dear.” … See … no fun.

My Musical Beach Day

2008-07-31T01:33:00.007-04:00

“So, Joe, you’re back to work tomorrow.”
“Yep, I think I’ll head to the beach today.”
Summertime is my favorite season. I really enjoy hanging out at the beach and I live close enough to jump in the car and be there in just a few minutes. My wife said I spend too much time in my room and I should get out and exercise. So I packed a lunch (egg salad for me and chips for the seagulls), ironed my Speedo (I always like to look good) and grabbed my cap. My wife often reminds me …
“Joe, make sure you leave your hat on!”
“Yes dear, I don’t want to burn my hair.”
So, off I went. It was a beautiful day, the clouds were a bit thick and although there was an invisible sun, I really felt the heat on my back and shoulders as I casually strolled along the water’s edge.
"Owwwwww! Damn kids and their stupid holes in the sand!”
Oops! Sorry, but that hurt. A little deeper and I’d have to learn Japanese (or is it Chinese?)
Has that ever happened to you? You know, you’re not watching where you going and suddenly one leg will just keep on going down.
Anyway, I continued to limp along, humming a tune.
When I got home a few hours later, my wife, home from her day at work, greeted me at the door.
“So, Joe, how was your day? Was it something to blog about?”
“Since you asked, I did come up with an idea. I’m going to post a music video blog.”
I hope you didn’t mind all the links and stayed a while to enjoy the music. I’m pretty tired now so I think it’s time to hit the pillow and head off to never never-land.
Goodnight.

The Dryer Prep Pole

2008-07-28T02:28:00.006-04:00

“Joe, What are you doing?”
“Uh, what’s it look like? I’m starting a load of laundry.”
Between you, and me, I don’t care what she thinks. When it comes to doing the laundry, my system works best. Over the years, although she won’t admit it, she has adopted many of my practices in dealing with the overflowing hamper. But still, she has her own ways that tend to aggravate me. I am practical. She is practically crazy.
Some things that we can’t agree on have resulted in her having her own dirty clothes bag where only her things go. It’s like her safety bag because I’m not allowed to wash anything that sits in it. It’s a rule. I can’t wash any of it. It’s like all her clothes are special or something.
“Don’t worry about the clothes tonight, Joe. I can do the laundry tomorrow.”
“It’s no problem dear, I’m down here on the computer anyway.”
Our laundry room is down in the basement in the same room as my office. So, it’s convenient for me to tend to the laundry while using the computer. We have our own little “Laundromat”. It consists of a washer, dryer, ironing board, folding table and a dryer prep pole. This has been the set up for the past fifteen years. Now you may be wondering, “what the heck is a dryer prep pole?” Well, let me explain. I invented it. That’s right, it was my idea not hers. You see, a long time ago we used an outdoor clothesline. What a pain in the neck that was. You had to lug the wet clothes to the bedroom window, which was located two floors above the laundryroom, and then, using clothespins, take each article of clothing and hang it out over the yard for the world to see. I hated it. There they were, her panties, my jockeys and the laughing neighbors. The clothes came back into the house smelling like “dog” and if it rained, sometimes you were lucky enough to quickly pull in semi-dried articles. If it rained and you weren’t lucky, you’d have to take the clothes back down to the machine and run them through the spin cycle again because they were soaked and so heavy the line stretched so low that the clothes were touching the ground.
Can you believe she still reminds me from time to time that I haven’t put up a new clothesline for her yet? So, using a wooden pole from an old closet and propping it up horizontally between two upright hat racks, I invented the “dryer prep pole”. I then convinced her that it was more practical to just take the clothes out of the washer, put them on hangers and hang them on the dryer prep pole. When they’re almost dry, we pop them into the dryer and add a softener sheet to fluff them up, take out the wrinkles and eliminate any future static electrical shock. Best of all the laundry comes out of the dryer not smelling like dog.
“Joe, you haven’t washed your new shirt yet, have you?”
“Don’t worry. All taken care of dear.”
When she does the laundry she annoys me because she makes things more difficult than they have to be. Like when she has to turn everything inside out before putting them into the washer and then she turns them back outside in before hanging them. I hate turning wet clothes from inside out to outside in. I’m not even sure if it is “outside in” because when you do it you’re really putting the outside back out. I get very confused. Then, she never hangs the clothes with the same amount of space between the hangers when she hangs them on the dryer prep pole. Some items touch making them take longer to dry. I have to continuously re-space them. She doesn’t make sure all the front of the shirts and pants face in the same direction. She doesn’t rotate the hangers for even wear. She hangs socks. Who hangs socks?
When I do the laundry, it’s done right!
“Joe, I just come down to say good night, I’m going to bed.”
“Okay hun, good night, I’ll be joining you as soon as I’m done down here.”
“Joe? Are those my new shorts hanging there? Why are they pink? They were white earlier today!”
“Uhm … what? Er … well I … uhm … huh?”

Foot Food For Fish

2008-07-23T04:08:00.007-04:00

There’s an item in today’s newspaper that caught my eye. A spa in Virginia is offering fish pedicures. After reading this you may ask yourself, “Why would I want to bring my fish to a spa? They ain’t got no feet!”
My thought exactly, until I read on.
It is, in fact, your feet that are soaked in a tub full of fresh water with about one hundred little fish called “carp”. These are toothless creatures that will eat only the dead skin on your feet. Why? Because there’s nothing else to dine on except the dead stinky foot skin you just dunked into their home away from home.
Now, I’m far from being an activist of any cause, but I couldn’t help but wonder where the PETA people stand on this one. Let’s find out.
“All aboard! My Brain Train is leaving the station!”
First … Let me think a second … It is the PETA people I should be looking into, right? That’s the organization of People Eating Tasty Animals? Sorry, I was just kidding. I don’t want to offend anyone. (Click.) Here it is … the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals.
Okay … Search on “carp”. (Click.) Hmmmmm. Did you know that goldfish are a type of carp? They can live up to forty years. I’m not sure if that can happen on a steady diet of foot food. Anyway, Goldfish are more an ornamental type of carp. They usually look pretty and for that they eat well. No dead skin dinners for them. (Click.)
A carp evidently looks at us and sees an endless supply of meals. Our skin is the largest organ of our body. We have layers of skin and the outermost layer is made up of mostly dead skin. (Click.) Every minute of the day we lose about 30,000 to 40,000 dead skin cells. To carps, our feet are just appetizers. They’re waiting for us to take the next step with full body soaks. They want the whole enchilada!
So as My Brain Train pulls into the next station, I leave you with this conclusion. (Click.) PETA mentions nothing on their website about the cruelty of feeding carp our smelly corn popping, blistering and bunion burdened tootsies. So maybe you might like to try it yourself.

My Own Niagara Falls

2008-07-17T13:54:00.002-04:00

“Joe, I just left some receipts on your desk.”
“Uh, okay dear. Thanks for letting me know.”
Oh-oh … What the hell did she buy now?
We have money conversations over and over and over again.
I hate arguing about finances, but sometimes I have to put my foot down! The trick is retracting it fast enough so I don’t end up with a heel dug into the top of my foot.
Let’s see what she bought this time.
Oh, it’s a receipt for a Pitcher Water Filtration System.
Yeah, I remember this. She bought it a few weeks ago.
I was aggravated that she decided on this purchase. To her, she was problem solving. Let me explain from the beginning.
“Joe, we need another filter, this one is no good.”
At that time we were using the type of filter that screws into the kitchen sink faucet. It seemed we had to replace it way too much.
After interrogating her on the possible reasons, I discovered she was filtering the water she used to water our nine million houseplants.
When I refused to replace it she suggested we change to having bottled water delivered.
“Joe, let’s go on the computer, I want to see the cute bottle stands they have to match our kitchen, I think they’re free when you set up an account.”
Crap! Why can’t she just take the time to learn to search the web? Or get on-line? Or use a mouse? Or, turn on the computer?
Weeks later …
“Joe, when’s our next delivery? We’re almost out of water.”
We started our plan with three bottles of water a month and ran out quicker than an elephant cannon-balling into a full bathtub.
We increased to four bottles last month and still ran out of water as we dragged ourselves closer and closer to the oasis.
When we recently changed to five bottles a month it was time for a new interrogation.
“Joe, I don’t know why. Honest, the plants seem to be doing okay on regular tap water now. They’ve adjusted.”
“Are you secretly bathing in it?”
“No.”
“Are you selling it to the neighbors for a profit?”
“No. Come on Joe. Be serious?”
“Are you cooking with it?”
“Well … I do use it to make the coffee.”
“Honey! What the hell! When you make coffee the water boils. I don’t think you need to use bottled spring water. It’s not exactly poison flowing through our pipes.”
“Joe! I’m not using that tap water for our coffee!”
So I gave up. Then the youngest daughter comes to the rescue.
Using calculators, measuring devices and going through two or three pencil erasers they figured out that if we use a Pitcher Water Filtration System to filter our tap water when we make coffee, it would eliminate two out of the five jugs we are being delivered each month.
Therefore, costing us about $10 less a month in bottled water.
See! She is doing her part to save money.
So, last week the new purchase sat on our kitchen table. (Still in the box.) This week it sits on our treadmill in the exercise room. (That won’t be moving too soon.) There is no shortage of coffee in our pot. And, we’re still close to matching Niagara Falls in water usage.
I don’t think we've yet managed to uncover the water consumption problem. The spending problem, well, I’ve only touched upon one of the six receipts she dropped on my desk.
And as far as what my wife is learning about all of this … Just this morning as she was changing the water in the fishbowl using our precious supply of natural spring water, she asked …
“Joe, if you’re running to the store, will you buy me a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee?”

Arte Y Pico ... My Online Affair

2008-07-13T07:30:00.007-04:00

“Joe, what’s all the fuss about? What is it you want to show me?”
“Come here! Check this out on my computer!”
The only time my wife sits in front of the computer is when I practically have to drag her down to my basement office to show her something … even then it’s like pulling teeth. She’s always too busy doing something upstairs like talking on the phone or reading or quietly figuring out how to aggravate me.
“Joe, you’re not going to show me something gross again, are you?”
“No dear, nothing gross. I won something!!!”
Okay … So sometimes I lure her down here for a laugh. Like the time I had her reading one of those emails where you’re really concentrating on finding something small on the screen and all of a sudden … up pops a scary picture accompanied by a dreadful scream! You know the ones I’m talking about. It was a while gaining back her trust after that one. But I did. She loves me.
“Joe, I’m serious. You better not be fooling around.”
“Come on honey, trust me. You’ll be proud of me, really.”
The gross thing she was referring to was one of my first posts … The Truth About Giraffes … She always thought it silly that I don’t find giraffes cute as most other people do. But after watching the video I added to my post … well let’s just say she laughs no more!
“Okay Joe, So what did you win? What the hell is that?”
“It’s a blogging award honey. It's my first! Someone gave it to me. You know … for my blogging.”
So I go on to explain that Heather, of KelticKaos fame was honored by receiving an award for her blogging by one of her readers called the Arte Y Pico Award and she now has to honor someone else, well … five others who have blogs that she likes to read … and I was one of the five bloggers she picked to pass the award to …
“Isn’t this exciting?”
*Crickets (I recently saw this on another blog and couldn’t wait to use it.)
“Joe, let me get this straight. First of all, there are other people doing this blogging stuff?”
“Well … yes. You didn’t know that? You thought I’m the only one?”
“Joe, you never explained that. Who else does it?”
“Hon, I have told you this before, but you’re never interested. I have to practically beg you to read mine. There are thousands … er … millions, who write blogs.”
“So, Joe, Who is this Heather? Why haven’t you mentioned her before?”
“Hon, I don’t know who she is. Honest! Don’t look at me like that!”
“Well she seems to know you. She’s giving you this award. How long have you been blogging to her?”
“Hon, You’re not getting this. She just reads my blog and she likes it. She’s just saying so by passing this award to me. I’ll do the same. I’ll pass it along to some others who write blogs that I like to read.”
“Oh yeah? Like who? More Heathers?”
“Hon, You’re being ridiculous. I’ll probably pass it on to … let’s see … Mooooog … and Bogart … and Dorky Dad … oh … and B-Dog … and Malicious Intent.”
“Joe, really, I’m supposed to believe these are real people? There are more girls too, am I right? You’re just not saying! You know ... your sister told me she has to really watch who your niece talks to on the computer. I think it’s about time I start learning this crap so I really know what’s going on down here.”
“Yes honey. You really do. (Under my breath) … Yeah, that’ll never happen!”
*SMACK
“OUCH! What? What did you do that for?”
“Because I heard that, smartass!”

Feces Species

2008-07-07T12:51:00.006-04:00

“Bzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzzz!”
How annoying … there’s a damn fly in this room and it keeps buzzing around my head. There are plenty of lights on in the room. Don’t they like the light? Isn’t that what attracts them? It looks like a common housefly. I think it’s a bit crazy. Can flies be crazy?
“Bzzzzzz! Bzzz! Bzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzzz”
I’ve been swatting at the little rascal for over an hour now.
I shut off the lights closest to me. My strategy was to have it wander to the houseplant sitting across the room under the only light still turned on.
“Housefly, meet houseplant … houseplant, this is housefly. Why don’t you guys hang out a while?”
I figured, both their first names are “house” … why wouldn’t they immediately connect? Besides, doesn’t this fly get the idea I’m trying to lay some hurt on it, swatting at it like a madman? Does it actually think I’m happy to see it as it watches me waving excitedly? I really just want it to leave me alone.
“Bzz! Bzzz! Bzzzzz! Bzzzzzzzzz! Bzz!”
So far I’ve thrown a book at it, sending my cell phone for a ride. Then, when Buzz (Yeah, I named it.) landed on my corkboard, I used a pencil as a javelin trying to nail the little bastard but instead, knocked over a picture on my desk. I’ve even taken off my tee shirt and swung at it rocketing my router off my computer tower and then toppled a half full can of soda onto the floor. Now I have sticky feet. (Not to be confused with “stinky feet” which I also have.)
“Bzz! Bzzz! Bzzzzz! Bzz Bzzz Bzzzz! Bzz!”
Just as I was about to use a can of aerosol spray as a flamethrower I saw the most unusual thing. The fly ascended to the ceiling and just sat there, upside down. How the hell did it do that? I wasn’t sure I saw the actual move Buzz made to get upside down. It was flying right side up but then suddenly it was upside down … and landed.
I had to research this.
Come along with me …
“Aaallllll aboard! My Brain Train is pulling out of the station!”
Let’s see … Google, Lycos … hmmm … Ask.com … Okay. (Click.)
Housefly: well-known cosmopolitan pest of both farm and home. This species is always found in association with humans or activities of humans. Well this is nothing new except I never thought of Buzz as a “species” or at a farm. But I guess that sounds right, although, the farm-fly we’re talking about here is probably the “horsefly” and I guess we call that one the “horse feces species”. (Click.)
What’s this picture link? (Click.) Wow! Look at these things. Colorful ones … hairy ones … big ones … little ones … hmmm … click on this and … “bad info leads to wrong house and bullets fly.” Okay, not what I was looking for. “Shoe fly?” … No … but “Shoo fly” I’d probably check out. (Click.)
Wait! flies in Vasoline! … One of my favorite Stone Temple Pilot songs . (Click.)
Oh yeah! Crank this baby up. Awesome!
(Then from somewhere upstairs …)
“Joe, Joooooooooooeee!!!”
“Huh?? Wha??? (to myself … Lower the music, quick, lower the music!) … Yes dear, what’s wrong?”
“Joe, please don’t play that so loud … and there’s a freakin’ fly buzzing around me up here, will you help me take care of it?”
(Smile)

*Be sure to visit other Brain Train Stations links.

The Beach Snooze

2008-07-02T11:42:00.006-04:00

“Joe, come on, let’s go or the parking lot will be full!”
“Yes dear, I’m waiting on you ... (then under my breath) ... as always.”
“Joe, I heard that!”
I had only a few hours sleep because I worked late and I was looking forward to snoozing at the beach. The beach is my favorite place to go and relax. I love the ocean. All my life the ocean has always been just a few minutes away from home. Today, the wife and I are going to swim, sun and relax the day away.
“Joe, do we have everything packed? Please make sure we don’t forget anything.”
“Okay dear, I’ll recheck everything ... (then under my breath) ... this will take another hour.”
“Joe, I heard that!!”
My work schedule often has me working the later shifts, so during the summer I’ll get up early, throw some snack foods, water and a towel into my backpack and off to the beach I go. When the wife comes along it’s like packing for a safari.
Bag #1: Towels ... check. Suntan lotion … check. Magazines, newspapers (the last four days worth ... she likes to catch up) and books ... check. Extra shorts and tee-shirts (WTF?) ... check. Sun hat ... check. Camera ... check. Kitchen sink ... check.
“Joe, I heard that!”
… Huh??? I didn’t say it ... I was only thinking it!!!
Bag #2: Ice packs ... check. Bread ... check. Tuna salad ... check. Chopped onions ... check. Sliced tomatoes ... check. Mayo ... check. (Why not just make a freak’n sandwich???) Tossed salad ... check. Chips ... check. Assorted fruits ... check. Two bottles of water ... check. Soda ... check. Paper plates, napkins, and silverware ... check. Large garbage bag ... check. Hummus, olives and pita chips ... che ... OMG! Way too much food! Is she look’n? I’m sneaking this back in the fridge ... she’s fn crazy!
“Joe, we all set? Did you pack the car?”
“Yes dear, both bags, two beach chairs, the big umbrella not the small umbrella, just like you said ... (then under my breath) ... and one pack mule.”
“Joe, I heard that!!!”
So, off to the beach we go ... with the back of the car scraping along because of all the stuff packed in the trunk. We managed to find a spot in the parking lot and after we unloaded everything from the trunk we strategically adorned ourselves with bags wrapped around our necks and shoulders, an umbrella strapped to my back and chairs in our arms. We made our way through the parking lot, over the boardwalk and onto the sandy beach, all the while my imaginary mule hee-hawed hysterically. We stopped for a moment (before either one of us had a stroke) ... We took a deep breath ... Ahhh ... the ocean air.
Examining the beach in front of us packed with families (and what looked like all their loved ones as well) we were faced with the usual decision ...
“Joe, which way do you want to go to set up?”
Looking left to right, determining the closest distance to the least populated area I opted for the right side. So we trudged through the hot, soft sand flipping shovelfuls into the back of my shorts as my flip-flops, well, flipped and flopped.
Ten minutes later we reached the edge of the crowd and just collapsed into a mound of bags, bodies and beach accessories. We untangled ourselves and after a few minutes recuperating we moved a bit further away from the population giving ourselves a little buffer room to stretch out.
We set up, stripped to our suits, went for a dip, and plopped into our chairs overlooking the ocean. Finally able to relax, I shut my eyes and immediately began to doze under the hot sun ... Ahhh ... this is the life.
“Oh-oh, Joe, don’t look now, but our space is about to be invaded (then under her breath) ... crap!”
“What? What do you mean dear, and did you say crap?”
I lifted my head, squinted my eyes and focused in on a group of traveling nomads determined to be the “new” edge of the crowd. There were about a dozen adults, complete with toddlers, teenagers, a bunch of those annoying nine and ten-year olds and what looked like maybe a high school marching band. They moved single filed creating a path in the sand, which I’m sure looked like a giant sandworm to any aircraft flying overhead. These people were prepared. They had big-wheeled strollers, wagons and carts filled with coolers, bags, blankets and wait!!! ... Is that a volleyball net? Someone was carrying a football. There were already two kites in the air (probably reconnaissance). And, is that music I hear?
“Joe, don’t panic, this will be fine. No need to worry. What’s important is that you go back to sleep.”
“Yes dear, if you say so, but I don’t know how I’m ever going to sleep now.”
The procession passed us and planted themselves closely to our right; setting up like an army bivouac and all I can wonder was how this will change our day of rest and relaxation. Strangely though, my wife didn’t seem very concerned. What’s up wi’dat???
Being so, so tired, I did manage to fall back to sleep.
A couple of hours later I awoke and was surprised to see there was hardly a person around us. How could this be?
“Joe, you’re up, did you have a nice snooze?”
“Yes honey, I have to admit, I did. And all those people ... they moved?”
“Joe, I told you not to worry about it ... (then under her breath) … your snoring does the trick every time.”
“Hey!!! ... I heard that!!!”
“So did they Joe ... So did they.”

Meme: My Memoir in Six Words

2008-06-27T03:59:00.006-04:00

Random Chick tagged me with this meme: the task is to write your memoir in six words.

I’ve been tagged for the first time and add to that … this is the first time I’ve been invited to participate in a meme.
Since the majority of my readers are presently family and friends, I should explain what a “meme” is and what it means to be “tagged”.
Being “tagged” is when another blogger mentions me in their blog and provides a link to my blog … just like I have done above with Random Chick’s name. (go ahead and click on it)
A “meme”, (rhyming with theme) as I understand it is a form of Internet survey, quiz or as in this case, a task, passed around from one blogger to another through linking. The linking part is important because it brings new visitors to your blog. The more interesting the quiz, survey or task the more links it will develop as it gets passed along.

So here it goes … “My Memoir in Six Words”

Birth, School, Work, Marriage, Family, Blog

Birth: “Thanks mom” for bringing me into this world by cesarean section. It’s a well-known fact that c-section babies are always “good looking”.

School: I met my wife when we were high school sophomores, and though I have no college education, the sisters of Notre Dame and the Franciscan Fathers filled my brain with enough knowledge to get me to the here and now.

Work: I started working when I was a young teenager and over the years I have yet to discover a way to “not” have to work.

Marriage: Not yet twenty-one but yet we tied the knot … Thirty-six years and counting.

Family: Four years into our marriage the twin girls were born with a third daughter arriving six years later … so, for more than half my life I’ve been blessed with children and now … grandchildren.

Blog: So now, if the married c-sectioned high school graduate working stiff with kids and grandkids suddenly kicks the bucket, will somebody please repost this memoir?

Now I’m supposed to tag six people … but I’m too shy.
Any volunteers?
Okay ... my first (and most likely "only") volunteer ... the awesome b-dog

Practically the World's Best Husband

2008-06-24T03:37:00.003-04:00

“Joe, will you still love me when we’re old and grey?
“Honey, are you serious? You get your hair colored regularly and I’m constantly trimming my ear and nose hairs. Helloooo! We’re already there!”
I just read an article on how to be the best husband in the world.
The author claims to be the greatest husband and offers to share his wisdom by offering me some tips. He says if I follow his guidelines my wife will get the partner she deserves.
I’m not sure if this is a good idea.
I think he’s plotting to steal my wife.
If he’s the “greatest” and she deserves “the best”, where does that leave me?
“Joe, I’m so lucky to have you.”
“Honey, don’t be silly. If you’re so lucky, why hasn’t Ed McMahon come knocking on our door with one of those oversized million dollar checks from Publisher’s Clearing House?”
I guess there are men who need advise on maintaining a long lasting relationship, but it’s not going to happen unless they truly make the effort.
I’m afraid it takes a bit more than following some stranger’s tips.
“Joe, come over here and smooch me.”
“Sure sweetie, pucker up, oh wait, yikes! Were you eating garlic?”
So what’s his advice? I’m sure you can guess. He says you must be sensitive to her feelings, focus on her needs, value her opinion, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. It really sounds like a lot of work for something I feel should come naturally.
“Joe, come and cuddle with me for a while.”
“Okay sweetheart, but if you start snoring before I fall asleep, it’s hello HBO!” I have two pieces of advice of my own to give out about maintaining relationships, having been in one for over 40 years. First and foremost is you have to find the right mate no matter how long or how many tries it takes. The person you’re looking for is the one that’s going to honor the part of the vows that state “for better or worse”. Equally important is that once you’ve found your partner, you realize what you have and know that nothing else would ever do. I’m not saying it’s easy but I am saying it’s how it has to be.
“Joe, why have you stayed with me all these years?”
“Honeybunch, you’re kidding me right? Who the hell else would put up with my crap?”

PracticallyJoe Unveiled

2008-06-19T12:30:00.004-04:00

“Joe, get up now, you know you’re not going back to sleep.”
”Wait! Who said that?”
“Oh, you again, why are you waking me, you know we haven’t had much sleep.”
I know I’m alone in the house, so it had to be “inner-thinner Joe”.
“Inner-thinner Joe” is that person inside of me who runs the whole show.
His real name is just “inner-Joe”, but I nicknamed him “inner-thinner Joe” because I know he’s about 20 pounds lighter than I would like to be.
After all … how else would he fit inside me?
You don’t know this about me. I’m sort of a ventriloquist.
I often talk to myself (or to “inner-Joe") but you wouldn’t know it.
My lips don’t move when “inner-Joe” and I are conversing.
Some people can’t help moving their mouths when they talk to themselves.
Listeners and onlookers often perceive these conversationalists as crazy people.
They’re probably not crazy. They’re probably just like me, only not ventriloquists.
“Come on Joe, get up. Don’t you close those eyes again!”
“Inner-Joe” is often annoying. He likes to have his way.
Once “inner-Joe” talks my brain into doing something, the rest of me just goes along with it, no matter how inappropriate, daring or idiotic the act.
Right now, I’m tired. I’ve only had about six hours sleep and for reasons yet unknown to me I feel I have to get up out of bed.
“That a boy! No, don’t take the pillow, set it back down on the bed and go straight to the bathroom and pee.”
Most of the time “inner-Joe” and I see eye-to-eye. Understandably, that isn’t physically possible, but, you know what I mean, we usually agree.
Other times, we act like we’re complete opposites.
Like when “inner-Joe” insists we start exercising today, but I can’t lift my ass out of bed. Or like when the wife asks me a question I should know better not to answer and “inner-Joe” says “Don’t answer! Don’t answer!” and I answer ... “Of course she’s hot … uh … But not as hot as you honey.”
“Inner-Joe” get’s angry with me when I get us in trouble.
He often forces me to stub my toe. I hate when he does that.
But, in my defense, there must be someone else in there with “inner-Joe”, maybe “oblivious-Joe” or “just plain stupid-Joe”.
No … “inner-Joe” insists ”It’s just me in here.”
“Come on Joe, lets go have some coffee and check our e-mail.”
So, I’m up now, sitting here with my coffee in front of the computer, typing this.
Wait a minute! That’s it!
I just realized … “inner-Joe” is really “PracticallyJoe”!
That is ... not quite "Joe" ... but "PracticallyJoe"!
Who would of thought?
“Okay, Joe, get it posted!”
“Wait! Who said that???”

No Arm to Pull

2008-06-16T23:27:00.008-04:00

“Come on Joe, I’m feelin’ lucky. Let’s go!”
Last weekend the wife and I decided to do some recreational gambling. So we planned to go wrestling with the one-armed bandits. The wife only likes the slots and we hang out together, so I like the slots too. We usually play the twenty-five-cent machines. Sometimes we play them using multiple options bringing each pull of the arm to cost as much as $1.25 a "pull". (That’s slots lingo ... pretty cool, huh?) To help make our money last, I watch her play, then she watches me play. If one of us is doing well, the other will get tired of watching so we occasionally split up. We bring our cell phones in case we lose each other. All those aisles of machines look so much alike and it’s easy to get lost. Problem is ... it’s difficult to distinguish a cell phone ring from all the game music coming from the slot machines (if you’ve ever been to a slots casino you’d know what I mean). We set our phones to vibrate after lessons learned.
So she’s winning ... I’m getting bored ... I wander off to play my own game ... twenty minutes go by ... suddenly I feel a pleasant sensation in my left pant-leg ... I answer my phone ...
“Joe, where are you?”
After many minutes of giving her directions when all the time I don’t even know where I am, she usually gets close enough that I can hear her panicky voice over the machine noise, easier than listening to her over the phone. “Just three more machines on your left dear, see, over here, I’m waving, good!”
We have played the slots in Vegas, at the Mohegan Sun and Foxwoods Casinos in Connecticut, in Atlantic City, on a cruise to Bermuda and even went out one time for a few hours on a gambling boat close to home. We enjoyed each time whether we won or lost. Our favorite games are the ones that look like this ...

Last weekend we stepped out of our comfort zone. We decided to try a place in Rhode Island called Twin Rivers. The website stated it only had slot machines and was just an hour away. It sounded good. But when we arrived we were not so happy. All of the games looked like this ...

Damn technology!!
First of all, what are we going to do with all these quarters?
Okay, so it’s been a while, I guess. Every machine took in bills only and would only spit back out … coupons! Where’s the fun gone? Where's the cha-ching cha-ching?
Then, another question. How the heck do you play these things?
It can’t be that difficult. I assume the more lines to play, the better the chance of winning, right?
My wife decided to break the ice and slipped a twenty into the slot. It was a 5-cent machine so what the hell, take a chance. Her look was one of disgust ... no friggin’ arm to pull. She selected the “maximum bet” button ... Let’s see ... twenty lines ... times 5-cents ... that’s one dollar ... give it a shot. Round and round went the colorful wheels ... about twenty- five different pictures of various sea creatures like crabs, sharks, mermaids, shells, fish, whales and such ... each with their own musical tune. Five seconds pass ... they all stop ... and ... nothing but silence.
After studying the results, we turned and looked at each other ... I don’t know which of us looked dumber ... then I said ... "Try it again."
“Joe, why does it say I only have three dollars left?”
I wanted to say “WTF”, but instead calmly asked, “What did you do? That just cost you seventeen dollars!” Even that didn’t go over very well.
So we searched and searched over the advertized 4,700 slot machines and couldn’t find one arm to pull. All the games were computerized, fancy-smancy musical bandits.
We observed others playing various machines while browsing the entire 300,000 square feet of modern technology and began to understand what we did wrong. We failed to travel the extra hour to Connecticut where the slot machines had arms.

Exciting Times

2008-06-11T10:26:00.004-04:00

”Joe, where have you been the past few days?
Awwww ... Isn’t that nice? You missed me.
Well ... It certainly was an exciting time.
I’ll quickly bring you up to date.
It all started on Friday, when the wife and I decided to play.
“ Joe, I really fell like hearing some ch-ching-ch-ching!”
We had already made plans to put our PaPa and NaNa hats on the next day to hang out with our 11-month old granddaughter, Lucia. Daughter #1 and her husband needed to go play with their friends. Thirty years ago, we took full advantage of having our parents goo-gooing and gah-gahing over her and her twin sister (daughter #2) to go play, so here we are “full-circle”. They live an hour away and not very far from two of our favorite recreational facilities. Sometimes we get this irresistible urge to donate our hard earned cash to our Native Americans at Foxwoods and The Mohegan Sun. We both thoroughly enjoy wrestling with the one-armed bandits as they happily entertain us with their melodious reactions to the fervent rituals we consistently perform with the hope they change their tune to ch-ching-ch-ching.
More on this adventure ... coming soon.

“ Luciaaaaa, NaNa and PaPa are here!!!”
We get ridiculously excited whenever we see Lucia.
But, to keep this post short and to the point, we spent all day Saturday goo-gooing and gah-gahing over grand-daughter #1 ... teaching her new words and new tricks. She was so much fun.
Lucia is also very talented ... Professional dancing is in her future.
Here’s a short clip ...

“Joe, that was an exhausting visit, I just want to relax now.”
Back home on Sunday, we were all set to recuperate and veg-out in front of the TV … then came the call. The wife answered the phone.
“Ma, my water broke ... we’re on the way top the hospital!”
Have I mentioned we’re expecting grandchild #2 any day now?
Daughter #2, our younger twin (by six minutes) apparently can’t wait to add to PaPa and NaNa’s fun.
Born early on Monday, introducing ... Aubrey Rose, granddaughter #2.

Isn’t it amazing? Just a few hours old and she already says “PaPa!”

Listen to the Music

2008-06-04T03:34:00.003-04:00

In Memory of Jeff Healey. An incredible musician, who at 8-months-old, lost his eyes to cancer. After living cancer-free for 38 years, he passed on in March of this year. He began playing guitar when he was three, developing his unique style of playing the instrument flat on his lap. Check it out ...

The Broken Grill

2008-06-03T03:02:00.011-04:00

Today I plan on barbequing a couple of pieces of chicken.
Doesn’t the word barbeque look strange? It’s usually BBQ or Bar-B-Q.
In the first sentence I was going to write BBQing, but that didn’t look right.
Anyway ... before I put on my chef’s hat and light the grill, I would have to look into a problem my son-in-law experienced last week firing up the grill when I wasn’t at home. He said “I think something’s wrong, flames were coming out of the knobs”. OK, yep, sounds like something’s wrong.
So ... as I do with most unfamiliar tasks since the late 90’s … I seek help on the Internet. This should be easy … let me think … how should I start?
“ALLLL ABOARD!!!! We’re about to ride My Brain Train” (Click.)
Searching for BBQ Grill repairs brought me to an About.com article on ... BBQ Grill repairs … so far so good. First thing … disconnect the propane tank or it can explode … Oh oh … better learn more about propane. Did you know that propane gas is the primary fuel for hot air balloons? (Click.) I find hot air balloon travel a bit scary. (Click.) A “Cloud Hopper” is a one-person hot air balloon where the pilot sits in a harness or small seat instead of a wicker basket (which isn’t much of a safe compartment to begin with unless you’re a picnic lunch.) There is often a propane tank behind the pilot's back, and the burner is on a frame above the pilot's head. (I’m going up now … throw a steak on my neck.) (Click.) Cluster ballooning is when someone ties a whole bunch of helium party balloons to a harness, straps it on and floats away, like in the cartoons. To come down one simply pops a ballon or two … oh … and they take bottled water with them so as they decend they spill out some water to slow themselves by becoming less heavy. Does someone cluster ballooning know the gravity of defying gravity? Gravity is our friend. It’s what keeps us from floating away in the first place. It’s what keeps our BBQ food on our plates. Without it nobody would come back if they jumped … no jumping up and down … just jumping up.
You know what I haven’t seen in a long, long time … Mexican jumping beans. (Click.) You know ... they didn’t actual jump, but they did jerk about and roll around. (Click.) Inside a thin shelled seed was some crazy moth that continually ran around inside smashing itself against the walls causing its movement. (Click.) The Atlas moth is the largest of all moths with a wing span between 10 to 12 inches. Yikes! Imagine that one fluttering about your porch light!
Hmmm … light? Something about light? (Back click. Back click. Back click.) Oh yeah, I was going to try to light the grill. Awww ... Forget it! ... I’ll just order a pizza.
“All those who’ve had enough better get off the Brain Train ... Next stop ... Nicky’s Pizza.”

Real Time Blogging

2008-05-31T23:14:00.003-04:00

“ Joe, just fast forward through the commercial, please!.”
Tonight, my wife and I were watching television. We had DVR’d the program we were watching, it had broke for a commercial but I had to get up off the couch to visit the bathroom. My thought was … why fast forward through the commercials when I have to take a break anyway. So I excused myself, let it play on and came downstairs to do my thing. I had just finished up when from the next room I heard the familiar “You’ve got mail!” coming from my computer. I could still here Antonio Banderas masquerading as a bee selling nasal spray coming from upstairs, so I decided to quickly check my mail.
“ Joe, what are you doing down there? The commercials are almost over.”
“I’ll be right there honey.” I answered. The email was alerting me to a new comment on a “Practically Wisdom” post. This is too exciting for me. I have to check it out. I’ve been working hard at trying to make new friends in the blogging community. I’ve been researching how to get others to read my posts. So far I’ve fueled my blog (which I’m sure will soon cost me about $4.00 a gallon) … I’ve begun “blog rolling” (when I showed my wife all she could do is roll her eyes … she’s not easily impressed) … I’ve signed up for and I’m still trying to understand “feed burning” (well, I’ve fueled it, why not burn now) … and I’ve been spending too much time on other people’s blogs, trying to make funny comments on their posts hoping someone will read them and ask themselves, “Who’s Practically Joe? I think I’ll check him out.”
“Joe, I’ve paused it now, hurry up! Are you coming back?”
”Yes dear, I’ll be right there.” (she’s gonna come down here soon) … anyway … where was I? Oh yeah … So I’m spending a lot of time blog reading and not blog writing (sorry I still haven’t mastered the blogging lingo yet) … there’s a lot of funny people out there. I want to put them all on my “Practically Friends” blogger’s list. It’s all good! I’m enjoying the humor, each writer’s uniqueness, their followings and their comments. I did receive a few comments since I studied up and put myself out there. It really feels good to know someone other than my family has read my posts.
“Joe, I’m going to bed if you’re not coming back up!” ”
That was her just then, did you hear her? She seems to enjoy my posts, although she’s not happy that I write about her a lot. (Hey, I got to get my material somewhere, right?) “Joe, have your fun writing about me but if you ever put my picture on there, I’ll kill ya!”, she said to me one day. She never uses the computer on her own. She has an AOL email address and has never used it; even AOL doesn’t know she has it. When she reads my blog, I have to do everything for her. She hasn’t the slightest clue how to get it up on the screen. However, she does like to move the screen up and down with the mouse wheel.
“Joe!!!”
“Shit! You scared the hell out of me! You even made me type s-h-i-t!” She snuck down and has been standing behind me without me knowing. I’m being really brave here … still typing. Wait a sec … I just know she’s gonna say something else. (I’m getting a little scared here)
“You’re supposed to be watching TV upstairs with me. What the hell are you doing?”
Wow … this is real cool … I’m writing this as I’m answering her … “Hon, I just got an email … someone commented on my blog, isn’t this exciting? I just have to see who it is and what they said.”
“Well, who is it and what did they say?”
“I’m not sure yet, let me see … It’s from … Anonymous and they want me to know the steak is good at the Wadhurst restaurant.” … “Isn’t this great?”
“Hmmm. Goodnight, I’m going to bed.”
“Okay honey, I’ll join you as soon as I post this. Goodnight.”

Guess What's Cookin' ... Me!

2008-05-29T03:15:00.012-04:00

“Hi, my name is Joe and I like to tan.”
As far back as I can remember I’ve spent each summer perfecting a tan. At the slightest hint of spring, the race is on to cook myself. I don’t want to be that guy on the beach with the white hairy legs and tanned left driving arm. Even worse, I think I’d rather die then be Mr. Tee Shirt lines.
Attempts to prevent this embarrassment include taking advantage of sunny days in April, laying out in the back yard wearing nothing but swim trunks, socks and a scarf until my goose bumps caused shadowing. Well, I’ve now taken it to a new level.
It’s only May and I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but I’m practically tanned. Yep, about 95% of my body is a darker shade of pale. Lord knows I’ve abused myself over the years, but all former vices aside, this is Practically Joe, right now, living on the edge. Despite all the warnings, I have discovered indoor tanning and I’ve done it weekly since last November. My wife went to Florida after Thanksgiving and I went to Tanamania, down the street. At least for a while, we looked like we vacationed together.
So there! I’ve admitted it. I look danger in the eye but I'm the one wearing goggles. Go ahead ... check my eyelids, they're part of the 5% of me not tanned.
Oh, and you should remove your socks, I learned the hard way. It will take my feet and ankles a few more visits to catch up.
So, let me share a few things I’ve learned in case you might ever want to give indoor tanning a try.
I prefer the tanning booth to the tanning bed.
One time using the bed was enough for me. It was like being a burger patty on a George Forman grill.

Plus, there was work involved. You have to spray and wipe down the top and bottom of the bed after each session. You might want to spray it before each session as well. (My apologies to the person who used bed #3 after my session.) I also found it difficult getting in and out of the thing. It’s high off the floor (there should be a step), it’s difficult to close once you’re in it (you pull the lid down but then your arm is bent and because you’re like … in a griddle … you can’t straighten it back down) and you have to be good at sit ups (because once you’re done you can’t grab the top to help yourself out because it comes right back down and you’re laying there again with your bent arm.)

The booth, on the other hand, is quite easy.
Open the door … step in … close the door … undress … tan … open the door again … step out … and you’re done. Oops!! Wait! … open the door … run back in … close the door … get dressed … then open the door … then step out … and your done.
"Crap!!! That was embarrassing ... Now I'm turning red."

Not Your Average Practically Joe

2008-05-25T13:46:00.007-04:00

“Joe, let’s not cook tonight?”
My wife and I felt like going out for dinner the other night.
We decided on a place called “Not Your Average Joe’s”
On their website, NYAJ’s describes themselves as creative, casual, cuisine.
They go on to say that if you like creative dishes that are innovated and unique; enjoy coming to a restaurant dressed as you are even though the food is worth dressing up for, and like the idea that they have cuisine (meaning they apply high standards of culinary art to everything they make) ... well then you should eat here. They add … if this restaurant sounds like your kind of place then, just like the others who go there, you are not your average Joe. Hey, that was clever. But, what if I’m “Practically Joe”?
We went because they invited us over for fancy looking dishes and blue jean cuisine. Besides, it’s on the way to our daughter’s house where we planned to stop later after having a bite to eat.
But tonight’s dining experience will be a little weird for me … here’s how it unfolds.
“We should of called ahead, I hope we don’t have to wait.”
Here we go. I named a dozen other places on the way, as we were 10 minutes into the 25-minute drive, even though I knew it didn’t matter. I was just covering my bases. We pull into the parking lot she says …
“Look at all the people hanging around, there’s a long wait, you go in and find out how long the wait is.”
I squashed this suggestion by parking in the furthest space from the door I could find and then saying ... “Don’t make me have to walk all the way there and back, just come with me now, I’m sure it not too long a wait.” Translation … a beer or two while waiting and the time will fly by.
“I’m really hungry, I wish it wasn’t so long a wait, where’s the beeper?”I answer, “We can go somewhere else (knowing she’s here to stay but I have to cover my bases), it won’t be that long and the beeper’s in my pocket (okay, so I like it when it vibrates), lets have a drink.”
I can bet on what comes next (it’s a 50-50 shot). She’s reading the drink menu and barely audibly talking to herself … “margarita? … martini? … what’s a mojito?? … wine? … hmmm, a wine-spritzer? … don’t see that on here …”, then … (I should of bet because I know her so well) …
“I’ll just have a Bud Light bottle … no glass.”
She always emphasizes the “no glass” … and she’ll send the glass back if one is accidently delivered. I just love her. Then, on to the next predictable topic of conversation as we wait …
“Let’s look at a menu so we’ll be ready to order when we’re seated.”
This is actually a great idea … if it worked. We both went through the entire menu changing our minds over and over again until we finally decided. Later, when ordering our meals, she will definitely change her mind on the spot and order some type of salad. I will not be upstaged and order something else as well (just to show her I can do it too) but of course I’ll most likely order something I really didn’t want and regret it through the entire meal … She’s definitely better at that than I am.
We are finally buzzed (oh, what a nice surprise, this feels good) …
“Joe, what’s with the stupid look? Is that buzzing coming you’re your pocket?”
Busted!
So the hostess finally leads us to our table and this is when it becomes a bit weird. I hope you can clearly envision this. The section we were led to was the type where there is a long wall with cushioned seats with a bunch of two-top tables running along it with a chair across the table for the other diner ... sort of like what’s shown in the picture, only this bench curved at the end making it a two-cushioned seating arrangement with a chair option. Being “practically” a gentleman, I offer her the cushioned seat as usual but then … my wife, seizing an opportunity, suggests …
“Joe, sit here next to me, on the cushioned bench.” Kind of perplexed, I reluctantly agreed and awkwardly sat at the curved section, next to her. Big mistake! I immediately became uncomfortable, not physically, my butt was happy, but mentally uncomfortable like “oh-oh” uncomfortable. The hostess, smiling at how cute we were sitting so close says, “let me remove this chair to give you more leg room. I now saw my only escape route being carried away. I am now feeling like I’m sitting at the head of a really long dining room table with a dozen or so unfamiliar guests focusing in on me.
Noticing me looking like a deer caught in headlights, she asks …
“Honey, what’s wrong, don’t you want to sit next to me?”
Barely hearing her ask, all I can see is this … Then five silent seconds go by and a fellow at the next table (2 feet away) asks … “Have you been here before? Try the steak tips they’re really good. Where are you guys from?” … Then my wife …
“Oh, we’re from Peabody, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.”
All the while, the others diners down the line studied me for reactions, as they chewed, chuckled and I sincerely think … felt for me (again, as they chuckled.)
Finally, when the conversation with the next table became a little uncomfortable even for her, she turns to me and seeing me staring daggers at her, she innocently asks …
“What???”
From there we argue back and forth, me trying to understand why she, all of a sudden, wants me next to her instead of across from her … and she, continually suggesting that I go look for my friggin’ chair … and them (our dining guests), still looking down the table at me, now whispering while covering their mouths so I can’t read their lips … I stand up and say …
“That’s it! I'm sorry dear. I’ll be right back, I need to find my chair, I can’t enjoy my meal if I can’t look into your beautiful eyes.”
“Oh honey, that’s so sweet. Hurry back.”
Yep, as soon as all our guests get up and leave.

Dance, Dance, Dance!

2008-05-22T00:53:00.004-04:00

Last week was the end of the season for Survivor.
This week the American Idol season ended.
Now starts another one of my favorites ... "So You Think You Can Dance!"

Here's a little something that got me warmed up for the two hour opener.

The Landscaping Scissors

2008-05-20T23:42:00.005-04:00

Today, being that it was my day off, I got to mow the lawn.
Just like most tasks I perform, there are certain rituals involved to get the job done properly. For instance, there is grass on all four sides of the house and there are doors on three of the four sides. So the first thing I do is open the inside doors and then make sure I unlock the screen doors associated with each. The opened doors allow me to retreat into the house quickly and easily, whether it is because I really have to pee or if I accidently disturb another hornet’s nest. Simply opening the doors from the inside without unlocking the screen door immediately causes cussing and sometimes a quick “plan B”, which reminds me I need to get a couple of screens fixed.
My mower is a trusty machine; it was used and abandoned before it came to live with us. It has front wheel drive and has an add-on clippings catcher. Over the past six years since my son-in-law gave it to us after he fixed it up for a customer of his who never paid his bill to reclaim it, I have never done anything but add gas a number of times and replaced an air filter only once when it was suffering from a cough. I’m not sure how often it was used before we got it, but I must’ve put over a couple of thousand yards (no pun intended) on it myself.
The ritual needed to be performed to get our mower going is this … I roll it out of the shed, pump the little rubber gas thingy 15 times and pull the cord thingy twice. The first pull is so easy I almost fling my arm back out of my shoulder socket, while the second pull always seems as though the mower is pulling back playing tug of war with me. It’s okay. This happens every time. Next, I pump the rubber gas thingy another 10 times only at a slower pace than I used the first time. While developing this process, I’ve discovered that pushing the gas thingy different amounts of times resulted in various types of problems, like hic-cupping, motor seizures, billowing black smoke and one time I swear it electrically shocked me. So, after a number of trials “10” times and only “10” times does the trick. After the tenth pump, I pull the cord and the motor starts up … but for only 4 to 5 seconds. I then quickly pump the gas thingy 3 more times, wiggle the spark plug wire connection and pull the cord once more and then it starts with a puff of smoke and finally continues running, ready to kick some grass butt.
I now go into my section and cut routine. I have to start from the outer edge of the grass area, closest to the shed, and circle the entire house so that I am always closing in on the landing area. The landing area is the last patch of grass to be cut. Usually there’s one of those big tall paper-recycling bags waiting there for the clippings. Sometimes I also leave a beverage or cookie there as well … you know, like a reward for completing my chore. So around and around I go, from the back of the house to the side of the house to the front of the house, following only the perimeter of the tall grass until I actually get so excited when I have to veer out of the way of the bag and my reward as the tall grassy area diminishes into one last foot wide strip.
There is one difficult area where timing and accuracy really matters.
In a previous post, My Little Brown Friends, I mentioned my neighbor has a landscaping crew who comes to cuts his lawn and yard. Well, between our yards is one of those coral type fences, you know the kind the cowboys always jump over when the horse they’re attempting to convince to wear a saddle bucks and kicks and chases them trying to bite them in the ass.
Because our mower is difficult to manuever under this fence, I must figure out which day the landscapers are coming (usually a Tuesday) and cut my grass before they arrive. This way, after they wiz by the fence on their big ass, sit down type tractor mower there remains a half-foot patch of uncut grass from the front of the yard to the back of the yard, under the fence, separating the two yards. I love sitting on the back porch drinking my beverage, eating my cookie and watching the poor dude with the weed-whacker trim the edge of my grass. Afterall, like I said, it’s a tough spot to mow.
In the end, I roll the mower back into the shed; I empty out the add-on clippings catcher into the brown paper sack and I head back into the house. I lock all the screen doors, close and lock the three inner doors, shower and begin to prepare dinner for the wife and me.
A half-hour later … “”Honey, I’m home. Nice job cutting the grass.”
“Of course it’s a nice job”, I think to myself. ”Oh Joe, by the way, I moved the clipping’s bag you left in the middle of the back yard. I guess you didn't realize there’s a patch of tall grass still uncut where the bag was sitting?”
“Oh crap, Where are the scissors?”

Pow! We Deliver

2008-05-19T01:00:00.002-04:00

"Joe, can we get an order of scallion pancakes?"
Sure honey, those skinny thin crusty things filled with fake onions sounds yummy. I’ll order them for you. I’m gonna have the greasy, spicy spareribs, the kind where you don’t even have to mess with a bone. Dip them in the sweet sauce, then dunk them in the hot yellow stuff …. Mmmm mmmm … I love that “up your nose almost making you have to sneeze feeling!”
"Okay Joe … I’ve decided … I’ll have the fried tofu with vegetables in the spicy pepper sauce."
Wow, my wife’s living on the edge today. She chose something with the word “fried”. Okay … let’s see … I should order something that has some veggies. Veggies are supposed to be good for you. What’s with the chop suey, and the chow mein and then subgum? Does it mean the veggies are chewy? Oh geez, forget the veggie idea. Hmmmm … moo shi … no that has those water lily flowers in it, who knows if some frog crapped on them. Forget the poo-poo platter, I like what’s on it but I just can’t get past the name. Moo Goo Guy pan … cows and guy goo in a pan? … I don’t think so!
"Joe!!! You going to pick something or what???"
Yeah, yeah, sit tight in your rickshaw will ya honey, I’m deciding already.
"Joe, you know I have 20-20 hearing, don’t get smart with me. Pick something, I’m starving."
“Sorry honey.” (I have to stop thinking so loud.) Where was I? Szechuan, Polynesian, Hunan, Human? Wonton, don’t wantton? Pork this, pork that? Lo mein, high mein? Kun Pow …. “POW!!!” Hey! That hurt!
”Forget it! I’m making a salad.”
Oh great. Veggies.

The Neighbor (Part 1)

2008-05-16T22:31:00.007-04:00

“Sandy Connors and Mrs. Bee”

Spinning tires ripped through patches of colored leaves, kicking them up to create a wake of dust and orange colors. She was rushing along, faster than usual although she didn’t know why. She was on her way home from school, cycling the same route she had taken for the past three months since starting back to school: the same boring streets, the same boring houses … the same boring town.
She was in the final stretch of her ride. In the distance she saw a strange object and as she drew nearer the small figure grew into a massive open end of a moving company truck. She wondered what was up. Maybe someone finally bought the old Spinner house? It was the only empty one on the block … only two doors down from her own home. The truck looked empty. It was just sitting there as if it was beckoning her to pedal right into its big open mouth.
“Not today!” she thought to herself.
Closer and closer she came never turning her head to check for cars exiting the many driveways dotting tree-lined Forest Avenue, where she lived all of her 13 years.
Sandy knew she was riding a bit dangerously but taunted fate because something needed to happen … something to distract her from thinking about him. Something did. It was a huge boulder.
She caught it with her peripheral vision. She learned to use it recently. She just hadn’t mastered it yet. That’s because of him. He made it difficult for her to concentrate. She couldn’t wait for her business with him to end.
Her hands automatically squeezed the hand brakes. Loose gravel and leaves formed a carpet under the dirt-bike causing it to fishtail and leave the ground in a sideways sweep, landing Sandy sprawled out at the curb staring up at the huge piece of granite in front of Mrs. Beecher’s lawn.
Sandy was more embarrassed than hurt. She lay there for a few seconds staring at the monstrosity. She slowly moved her fingers, the ones that were practically pointing to the rock. Her head was resting on her extended arm and her view from that angle was as if she were using her arm as a rifle sighting in on Mrs. Bee’s new lawn ornament. It sort of looked like a huge mountain in the distance if she eyed it with a squint.
Slowly Sandy turned her head hoping to not find an audience. Everything remained quiet. There were no cars coming. There was still no activity around the empty moving van. It seemed as though the “coast was clear”. Her daredevil antics appeared to have gone unnoticed. As she began to untangle her knotted legs her attention was drawn back to the strange rock. This time it caused her to let out a shrilled scream.
From over the top of the boulder came two hands grasping its rough edges as if someone was on the other side scaling it. Following the gripping fingers, Mrs. Bee’s head popped up with her eyeglasses falling to the tip of her nose.
“I see you met my new friend.” She said. “I haven’t named it yet but Gibralta tends to top my list, so far. Get up dear. Are you okay?”
“Yes, Mrs. Bee. I think I’m going to live. At least nobody saw my landing. I would have crawled under that thing if someone had.”
Sandy managed to pick herself up and as she stood there brushing the dust off her school uniform she looked at her favorite neighbor and asked, “So, did it fall from the sky?”
Mrs. Bee chuckled as she came out from behind it. “No, my child. If it had, this monster would have sunk itself deep enough to pull in my front porch. That would have been terrible, don’t you think?”
Many times Sandy sat on the old porch swing with Mrs. Bee. As a matter of fact, Sandy’s old photo album that she keeps under her bed, up in her room across the street, had at least one picture from each year growing up, of her and Mrs. Bee together on that swing.
“Oh, thank God that didn’t happen Mrs. Bee. Where would we sip lemonade in the summer and hot cocoa in the winter?”
Arm in arm, the two friends slowly climbed the old wooden stairs, where at the top step sat a cigar box, which had attracted a swarm of flies that relentlessly bombarded themselves into every exposed side.
Sandy didn’t notice, she just couldn’t wait to hear more about Mrs. Bee’s new lawn ornament.
(Where did the rock come from? What was in the box? Who was the mysterious "him" she was thinking about and what kind of business with her did "he" have? ... Stay tuned!)

What the Flock!

2008-05-14T01:26:00.009-04:00

Today I wasted way too much time searching the Internet.
It began when I received an e-mail commenting about my fear of giraffes. The reader assured me they were harmless, social animals. It was also mentioned that they travel in herds. That got me thinking about the word “herd”.
Come along for another ride on My Brain Train.
(Click.) Animals that travel in herds are called “Ungulates” (hoofed animals).
Some examples are horses, sheep, scary giraffes and buffalo.
So, what about the hoof less animals: how do they roll? (Click.)
The first thing that popped into my brain was a “gander”, which I thought was a group of gooses. After I took a “gander” I learned that a “gander’ is a male goose and more than one is actually called “geese” and they travel in “flocks”.
Furthermore, a “flock” of “geese” is called a “gaggle” and a “gaggle” of “geese” in flight is called a “flight”. Someone was real creative with that one.
But wait! The “flight” or “gaggle” or “flock” of “geese” is also called a “skein”.
(Click.) And if that isn’t enough …
A “flock” or “gaggle” of “geese” can also be called a “herd”. ”That’s right, they ain’t got no hooves!” and they can still be a “herd”. Now before you say ”Joe, what the flock!”, let me try to explain.
When a “flock” or “gaggle” of “geese” are not officially a “flight”, meaning, of course, that they are not in flight, and they are congregated on the ground, if they are guided, let’s say, across the road to keep them out of danger, then they are being herded and qualify as being a “herd”. If they are herded a long distance, say, across town, then they become a “drove” because they are being driven even though they never got into a car!
Remember, you “herd” … oops … “heard” it here on My Brain Train!

The Truth About Giraffes

2008-05-12T23:24:00.011-04:00

I just survived the finale of “Survivor Micronesia”.
I was marooned on my couch wearing nothing but my sweat suit and socks. I was also allowed a few personal items.
I had three pillows, two remotes, a phone, a diet coke, a box of crackers, a chicken sandwich, a slice of calzone and some dove chocolates.
I guess you can say I prepared myself well so I wouldn’t need to leave my little island, but I forgot the empty jar and had to give myself a quick bathroom break during one of the commercials. I made it through the entire three hours suffering only from a numb gluteus maximus.

When the program neared its end, viewers were treated to a preview of next season’s Survivor: Gabon – Earth’s Last Eden. Gabon is a West African country where pygmies originated and now is home to The Fang People who are ruled by a man named Bongo. They showed pictures of Gabon, most of them were clips showing large scary animals. I am writing CBS tonight withdrawing my audition tape. I hope it’s not too late.

Wild animals are not my favorite creatures. There, on the TV screen, were surfing hippopotami. Just because the word hippopotami ends in “ami” (excuse my French) doesn’t mean they are friendly. No sir …I’ve learned that the hippopotamus has killed more humans than any other animal. (Just check out the picture of a hippo skull.) And, did you know these fat bastards, could easily outrun a human? (please excuse my French again) I’m not so sure they can’t chase you up a tree either.

I’ve also read there are lots of African frogs there and adult frogs eat other animals smaller than themselves, including other frogs. The Goliath frog can grow to the size of a baby deer! Imagine crossing paths with the biggest of all Goliath frogs. When I croak the last thing I want to hear is a croak and a burp.

And everyone close to me knows that giraffes scare the bejesus out of me. Have you ever seen a more hideous creature? Did you know that when they walk both right legs move forward at the same time, then both left legs? How the hell do they not fall over? Then there is the bizarre neck, the nose-bleed height and those hairy horns. Also, the giraffe has a very, very freakishly long tongue. I think most of the giraffe's tongue is packed neatly into its neck. The giraffe uses its tongue like a monkey uses its tail. Really, it’s called prehensile, look it up! That’s how giraffes swing from treetop to treetop.
And, if you don’t see giraffes as I do, let me leave you with this little film clip.
"Oh, they’re so cute!"

The Master of Marriage

2008-05-08T07:00:00.002-04:00

I am the master!
I am the sensei (sense-say) of my domain.
“Joe, sweetie, okay, that makes sense, let’s put it there.”
My student is in awe of my complicated kata.
“Joe, honey, be careful don’t lift with your back!”
I manipulate my chi, (chee) so I won’t hurt my knee.
“Watch it Joe, that looks really heavy!”
My jutsu has to always be just so.
“Try moving it a bit to the left, Joe.”
My loud kiai (kee-eye) makes her fear for the worst.
“Oh honey, that had to hurt, are you okay?”
My pen just stuck my ken.
“Joe, you shouldn’t lay it down on your desk.”
I add the mojo to our dojo.
“Wow Joe, I never believed you could do it on your own!”
I am a "marital" arts black belt!
“Okay Joe, just three more of those 5 gallon Poland Springs water bottles left to bring here and you get your back rub.”
Heeeeeeeee-Yahhhhhh!

Chocolate Rain

2008-05-07T08:00:00.004-04:00

Tic-Tac to the Rescue

2008-05-06T03:20:00.003-04:00

A Couple of nights ago I was out with a few friends celebrating and I guess I had a few drinks more than usual. Usual is no drinks. But we were celebrating. I like Southern Comfort. I like my Southern Comfort straight up or on the rocks, plain and simple. As the night wore on, people were getting loud and conversations were becoming a bit confusing. One of my friends asked,
”Joe, would you like a tic-tac?”,
I remember projecting my voice across the loud table a few times, mostly while asking ”I’m sorry, what did you say?” But now I was a bit embarrassed, thinking to myself, do I have Southern UnComfort breath. Maybe I was exhaling remnants of swallowed SoCos at my friends across the table. Not wanting to offend, I graciously responded with, ”Sure, I’ll have a tic-tac.”
A few minutes later one of the bartenders delivered a tray of drinks to our table. I was instructed to drop the shot glass filled with Rum into a larger glass of Red Bull and something else and then drink. Well, I drunk, was drunk, no, I drank … well anyway … you get the idea.

What's for Dinner?

2008-05-01T03:42:00.002-04:00

Hmmmm … What shall I make for dinner?
”Joe’s Tabula Rasa Crust Pizza”
In case you’re Latin’s a little rusty, the phrase ”tabula rasa” means ”blank state” … so you take the tabula rasa crust, which is flavored with classic Italian herbs, and create your own masterpiece by adding a little olive oil and your favorite toppings. “Magnifico!!!”
”Joe’s Chicken Pomodoro”
Fire-grilled, boneless, skinless chicken breasts topped with diced tomatoes, strips of yellow squash, roasted zucchini slices, Provolone cheese and pomodoro and pesto sauces … add the rice, pasta or potato dish of your choice and “Voila!!!”
”Joe’s Trout Fillets in Oil & Brine”
Oh yeah! Laid over a bed of greens and drizzled with the oil/brine mixture, maybe combine it with some sun dried tomatoes and Arugala on focaccia and make it a completely unique Panini. “Awesome!!!”
”Joe’s Gazpacho Soup”
I can start off with this … Take some tomato, cucumber, onion, green pepper, lots of garlic, cilantro and some jalapeno pepper … “BAMMM!!!! Refreshing because it’s served cold.
Let’s see … for dessert …
”Joe’s Flan Parfait Cake”
I know what you’re asking yourself. Is it Flan? Is it Parfait? Is it cake? Well let me tell you. Begin with a layer of dark, moist chocolate cake. Add a very subtle touch of caramel on top. Then, top that with a thick tier of creamy flan and cap that with thin layer of dark chocolate. But wait … we’re not finished yet. The dark chocolate on top is next covered with a truly luxurious layer of whipped cream with just a bit of a caramel crown. “Heaven!!!!”
I just love reading my Trader Joe’s monthly flyer.

The Quest for my Head

2008-04-28T01:37:00.004-04:00

It’s time for another haircut. Three weeks ago was the first time I ever stepped into Tim’s Hairstyling for Men.
I’ve been trying out new barbers for a few months now … seeking the right artist to continue landscaping my head.
I can only remember as far back to when I was about 12 years old when my barber was “Charlie the barber”. He owned a shop right across the street; my dad got his hair cut at Charlie’s.
My fondest childhood memories include sitting in Charlie’s shop on top of a piece of padded wood, which firmly spanned the arms of the barber’s chair to bring me to a grown-up’s height. The shop smelled like hair tonic and cigarette smoke and Charlie always coughed so much from smoking I thought he was going to bring up a lung. Charlie was my barber until the Beatles made their debut on American television. I remember watching them and going to school the next day with my hair combed down in front of my eyes instead of the slicked back look I wore through most of grammar school. It was goodbye barber, hello stylist for the next 20 years.
I let my hair grow really long after turning 18. When I turned 20 and my hair fell past my shoulders, I had a traumatic experience; an army barber at Fort Jackson quickly shaved it all off. There were no mirrors there; I could only look down and watch my falling hair cover my feet. To this day I can’t look down at the clippings on the floor around the barber’s chair while I’m getting my haircut without reliving that frightful day.
It wasn’t until my mid thirties when I grew tired of the long hair.
That’s when the quest began.
I visited quite a few barbershops; seeking out a barber I could trust to handle my precious head. It really has been an adventure.
There was Tony the Barber who loved to gamble and once bet me he could cut my hair while only looking at me through the mirror. He shed blood from my left ear. I moved on.
I met Federico in the next shop I visited. He smoked cigars and apparently ate a lot of garlic. I couldn’t breathe. I moved on.
Mickey Scissors was a unique individual. Don’t call him Mickey. If you did, he would say, “Please, Mickey Scissors, call me Mickey Scissors”. Ironically, he would only use electric sheers when he cut hair. Really, he didn’t use scissors.
There was a stuttering barber named C-c-c-cleo who uncontrollably spit when he stuttered on P’s, a barber named Dave who always wore fatigues and used dull scissors … ”ouch, ouch again, ouch again, ouch”… and Frank the Barber who was so slow that my hair was growing faster than he could cut it.
“Paul the barber” cut my hair just the way I liked it and as a bonus he was one of the very few barbers that still used hot foam around the ears and nape of the neck, making the final trim using a straight edge razor. Unfortunately for me lots of other men were equally pleased and so I would find myself sometimes waiting up to two hours to get in his chair.
After almost two years visiting Paul’s shop it became just too inconvenient for me to wait and wait and wait. Anyway, now in my fifties, I have a lot less to work with on the top of my dome.
So the quest continues … Could Tim be “the one”?

Don't Have a Funambulistident

2008-04-25T02:37:00.002-04:00

“Scratchident … An auto mishap caused by someone scratching a lottery scratch ticket while driving!”
I have come to really appreciate words and their (not the place) origins.
All through (not tossed) the ages (not how old people are) since man (meaning all humans) began to communicate, words have been continuously developing (not like film does).
The word “scratchident” has made me (not the note on the music scale) think that I’m probably not the only one with an interest (not what you pay the bank) in words.
So let me share a few of my thoughts on words.
“I’ll never be a … funambulist”
All words have a beginning, a reason for their existence. Some date (not the fruit) back centuries (not the Roman guards) others were formed last week (not the lack of strength). For instance … let’s take the word funambulist, surely you must be curious? This word refers to a tightrope walker (not what granny uses) or a rope dancer (not the reindeer). The word comes from the Latin funambulus which (not the scary woman) also meant the same back (not the spine) then. It’s a compound of funis “rope” and ambulare “to walk”. Now, wouldn’t you (not the sheep) agree it would be unfortunate to have a funambulistident (falling off the tight rope)?
Okay, I just made that up. But (not your backside), if you did you will (not the legal document) no doubt end up in an ambulance (meaning you can no longer walk)?
“I too, will not be forced to wear a two piece tu-tu.”
This brings me to another type (not what a secretary does) of word. The kind (not the attribute) of words that sound the same, are sometimes spelled (not cast by a witch) differently, have more than one (not the opposite of lost) meaning and often get me in trouble. We call this word a “homonym” from the Latin compound homo “same” and nym meaning “I don’t know … No, really … I don’t.” What I do know (not the opposite of yes) is that you better watch (not the timepiece) your homonyms. Like when I told Domenica (she’s my wife) she should be (not the insect) a little bear/bare for the costume party. (Bop!) Or when I suggest to her, I should have some brews/bruise … (Bop!) She gives me one on the head (not the toilet).
“A baseball player needs to run home to make a homerun.”
Putting (not the golf shot) words together can (not the container) also be fun, doing so (not the darn thing) we make up new words. Some (not the total) good examples of these are the results of mixing different breeds of dogs. For instance, mating a Pointer and a Setter we (not what we yell on a roller coaster) end up with a Pointsetter (a great Christmas pet). When we cross (not the anger) a Bloodhound and a Labrador we get a Blabador (a dog that barks a lot). Mixing a Collie and a Malamute produces a Commute (a dog that loves to travel). Lastly, when we bring together a Bull Terrier and a Shiatzu we of course (not the dinner serving) get Bullsh … (Bop!) … Never mind.
“Well (not the water source) … Enough about words …
My head hurts (not the Car Rental Company)!”

My Little Brown Friends

2008-04-23T00:20:00.007-04:00

The temperature reached into the 70’s today.
Tomorrow is expected to be warmer.
It’s time for spring clean up.
Fall clean up didn’t go too well.
I was waiting for the trees in the backyard to drop their leaves.
They finally did … when it snowed.
I tried to time it right.
Of course, Mom nature just couldn’t wait another weekend.
Well, at least the leaves couldn’t find their way into the neighbors yard now. I always worried about that. They pay a landscaper to keep out my leaves. Sometimes they would sneak back over.
But, that was months ago. They’re still here in my yard. Waiting.
They look a bit crumpled and sad.
”Why, Joe, why? Why have you left us here so long?”, I swear I hear them asking.
I don’t know how to make it up to them.
I’m ashamed of myself for being so neglectful.
I watch in pain as the wind blows.
They struggle to get up to seek refuge in the neighbor’s (way too green) backyard.
But alas, they stay stuck in the dead grass I didn’t have a chance to mow … did I mentioned it snowed early last winter.
Once, during the winter, after a heavy snowfall, I fired up the snow blower to clear the usually walkways around the house.
While I blew the snow around, I thought of the poor leaves, smothered under all that snow, probably freezing, my toes were.
I veered off the path leading to the back porch stairs, then onto the back yard and it was awful. I think I killed some of them.
Most of them landed atop the fresh snow. Some mixed into the snow. Others got torn to shreds in my snow blower.
I’m not sure if anyone saw it happen. I looked around. No one was there.
I quickly covered them with handfuls of snow.
I occasionally have frozen leaf nightmares from the incident.
Last week the neighbor’s landscapers were back.
I was bringing in the rubbish barrels. I saw them pulling up in their truck. I hurried to get back into the house, trying not to make eye contact. Too late, I fell for it. They beeped the horn and I instinctively turned to wave.
I think they like me. I wonder why?
In the morning I will tend to the little squatters.
Today I bought two packages of those tall, brown paper, leaf bags.
My plan is to gather up my little brown friends and send them on a journey to the waste management incinerator for a proper disposal.
It's hard to live with myself, after what I put them through this harsh winter.
Will they ever forgive me?
I just hope it’s not too hot to work outside tomorrow.

My Brain Train

2008-04-21T01:17:00.004-04:00

Over the past few days, I’ve been lacking my usual train of thought due to the battle that was going on in my stomach.
So feeling ill ... home from work ... making constant trips to the bathroom ... and with not much more to do … I decided to surf.
As I mentioned my train of thought was amiss.
I would have to concentrate or I could easily end up wandering aimlessly through hundreds of unrelated sequences of websites.
Right now, I’m hungry.
I’m hungry for knowledge.
I love learning “useless” or “unimportant” information.
Why don’t you come join me?
Follow me along a short path in my brain.
Let’s go for a ride on my (slightly off) “train of thought”.
Did you know that butterflies taste with their feet?
“Feet” led me to “body parts” … “body parts” to “ears” … “ears” to …
Did you know that Vincent van Gogh cut off his ear?
“van Gogh” led me to “art” … “art” to “painters” … “painters” to …
Did you know that Leonardo Da Vinci invented the parachute?
“Parachute” led me to “planes” … “planes” to “air travel” … “air travel” to …
Did you know that the word “stewardesses” is the longest word typed with only the left hand?
“Left hand” led me to …
Wait a minute!
I just had a piece of toast in my left hand a few minutes ago.
Oh yeah … I was going to get up and butter it.
Oh … that’s what made me think of “butterflies”.
Here’s the first stop. You better hop off now.

Discovering Badunkadunk

2008-04-15T00:07:00.005-04:00

I sometimes worry about aging … but not so much these days.
For me, worrying about my age started soon after I turned 30. I was already married 10 years and had three children. I began to wonder…
Will I live to see my three daughters get married?
Will I ever live long enough to enjoy grandchildren?
Am I going to lose all the money I’ve contributed to Social Security?
In my mid 30’s I came the closest to death as I ever have.
(That I’m aware of, anyway.) It was an eye opener, but I believe in fate, I still had stuff to do. I guess that incident marked my “age worrying peak”.
My oldest children were just over 10 at that time. By the time they were in their late teens, I was feeling pretty good. But our age gap seemed to have grown … I needed to re-connect. I wanted to keep that gap close, be their buddy, and hang out with them. That’s when desperate times called for desperate measures.
Like the time I started wearing my jeans down really low and hiking my underwear up really high. This of course was to give me a new hip look. My 17-year-old didn’t think so. I couldn’t pull it off. I was still the shape of an apple.
I tried to experience new music. In doing so, I learned new definitions for familiar words like M & M, wrap and booty. I discovered a teen language, entering into my vocabulary new words like badunkadunk, bling-bling and boo-yah.
I even learned how to re-use old words like … well … “word".
It became crystal clear; I was a dad, not a dude.
Time marched on … our daughters married and we gained three great sons.
So, I reached 50 and honestly began worrying less about getting old. I’m happy to still be alive and healthy. And, whenever possible, I revisit my childhood by acting like a kid.
For instance, when at the supermarket, I still find it funny to drop odd items like jars of pickled pigs feet and mini-franks into other people’s carts.
My goal now, at 56, is to live with the least amount of stress possible … eat what my wife tells me to … take naps … and hang out with my grandchildren.
Hey! … How weird would it be anyway to reverse my aging now and how awful would it be to stop aging at all?
The following video will introduce you to a woman who is aging gracefully.
And with one my favorites from Cold Play … Enjoy!

Idol Worrying

2008-04-14T02:25:00.007-04:00

I can't help it. I worry.
I worry about everything.
I worry about being late. I worry about the bills.
I worry that I forgot to set the DVR to record American Idol.
I couldn't bear the thought of that.
I have to watch it right after it's recorded.
I can’t watch it while it’s live.
I have no patience.
I have to be able to fast-forward through the commercials.
Sometimes I worry about that.
I hate it when I can’t watch it right after I record it.
I usually can’t avoid the outcome when I log onto the Internet.
Even if I keep one eye closed as I surf. I worry I’ll find out who’s out.
I like to watch the elimination and be surprised.
When someone I like gets voted off the stage ... I sometimes become emotional.
I worry about that. Why do I feel that way?
They'll probably make millions anyway.
I worry constantly. Many times I worry needlessly.
I worry that I worry too much … as if I don’t worry enough already.
I wonder … should I be worried about all of this.
I think I've been a worrier all my life.
Did I worry about baby things? Maybe I worried about my 3am feedings.
Could I have worried about never becoming potty trained?
Maybe I worried that I'd never learn to walk and I'd have to crawl through grade school. I wish I could remember that long ago.
I don't think it's good to worry so much.
But on the other hand …
If people didn't worry at all, we'd be a world full of daredevils.
Criminals would be totally ruthless if they didn't worry about the consequences.
But on the other hand …
If everyone worried like I do we would be a paranoid society.
Everyone would DVR American Idol and clog up the cable networks.
But on the other hand (oops! … Does that make three hands? Oh well…)
Worrying prepares us for the worst. That’s good, isn’t it?
I know that when I’m home, finally getting to relax … and I pick up my remote to turn on my TV and click to my DVR selections and don’t find the newest American Idol … I PANIC! I search up and down … my blood pressure increases … I start to sweat … I go out of my mind.
I don’t need to be surprised like that.
If I had worried about that earlier don’t you think that it could have been less traumatic ... knowing there might have been a chance I forgot to record it?
Of course … I would have been prepared.
Sometimes I worry I'm not always prepared enough.
I totally can't concentrate when I'm worrying.
I am, oh, so annoying when I'm worried.
Just ask the people I live with. Worry is not my friend.
I wonder if it will bring bad luck writing about this "worry" thing of mine.
Oh crap! :>(

IDGAF

2008-04-12T10:43:00.004-04:00

I love music.
Back in my teens, when gasoline was 35 cents a gallon, I was the lead singer of a band called The Off and Ons.
We did strictly cover songs. We were only talented enough to mimic.
Sometimes we did songs so well they sounded like originals.
“But that really was Satisfaction!, Honest it was!”
I have met many rock musicians over the years and today I actually work with a couple. Not on stage. Those days are gone since gas since gasoline jumped to 37 cents.
These are the younger generations … the stars of tomorrow when gasoline will be $4.50 a gallon.
Recently I took in a set at a local gin mill (”Do they still call them gin mills?”)
The band was El Rancho … the bass guitar player, Dan the Man Griff is awesome!
There was one song featuring his “vocal” ability … the name of the song escapes me … the lyrics were made up of only five words. He belted them out over and over and over again.
I cant say them on this blog but here’s a clue as to what they were … I D G A F (the first letter of each word).
Here’s my impression of American Idol judge Randy Jackson critiquing Dan.
”Check it out! Check it out! Listen here, for me it was okay Dawg … a little bit pitchy … you knew the lyrics well … but, dude, your bass playin’ was the BOMB!”
Another up and coming Boston band working to make its mark is called Vera Mesmer.
Now is my chance to figure out how to imbed a video onto this blog.
So here they are folks, Singing "You and I" … Please welcome … Vera Mesmer …

Swinging with a Friend

2008-04-11T03:36:00.001-04:00

“Now remember, Joe … Point of Contact. ”
Golf season is upon us now that the weather is getting better.
I enjoy swinging a club now and then.
I’m not a serious player, but if I’m gonna play …
I might as well play to break the course record.
One problem I have is that I tire too quickly … before you know it …
I’m pooped and my score begins to climb.
For those of you not familiar with the game, that’s not a good thing.
The least amount of strokes the better.
Today I’m playing with a friend who knows the game quite well.
I’ll surely benefit from his tips.
“Joe … Remember the fundamentals … First … The grip.”
It’s always good to give yourself a refresher at the beginning of a new golf season. You know … sort of a pre-game warm-up, a few practice swings and a revisiting of some back to basics instructions. Now, pay attention and you may learn something.
Swinging the club with control and maximum speed requires holding the club securely. This is important because if you don’t hold on good enough you’ll be in the woods looking for your club instead of your ball.
“Joe … Make sure you bend from your hips … not your waist.”
Posture is important to your golf swing. I appear to have a problem with my bending. This doesn’t surprise me. I think I threw my back out tightening the laces on my golf shoes. Are the hip sockets really six inches lower than the waist? And how in Heaven’s name does one bend from them? Doing my best to achieve this position has me looking as though I must find a restroom.
“Joe … You need to turn yourself slightly to the left.”
Body alignment is a very important basic. To hit a relatively straight shot, a golfer’s shoulders, elbows, hips, knees and feet, that’s right, from top to bottom, everything must be aligned together. I usually like going the extra mile, so I try to line up my eyebrows, chin, bellybutton and ankles too. I’ve been told I sometimes look like a Picasso.
“Joe … Try aiming your club face toward the target.”
For those of you not too golf savvy, this means the flat part at the bottom of the golf club should face the hole you happen to be playing. This is important because that’s where you want to hit the ball. I usually need help with this step. Well, at least someone has to point me in the right direction. I have a hard time seeing that little hole, so far away. They tell me to just look for the flag in the hole. I say … “What flag?”
“Joe … Watch that back swing.”
Finally we come to the back swing, the pivot and the impact. If all the previous steps were carefully administered that little white ball should find it’s home … right into the little hole. Okay … Everyone quiet, please. I need to concentrate.
“Ugh! … I hit that damn windmill blade again!”

My Left Hand is in Control

2008-04-10T01:43:00.002-04:00

It’s time to relax. Dinner is over. The kitchen is cleaned up.
My wife says, "Let’s see what’s on TV!"
I love watching TV. I have three remotes. They drive my wife crazy. Sometimes I hold two remotes at a time. In a minute I’ll tell you why.

We nestle on the couch, ready to surf the channels. In my right hand I brandish a universal control. The universal control is way cool. With a touch of a button it allows me control over four different components. There’s a cable button, a DVD player button, a surround sound button and a TV button. I love all four buttons equally.

"So, what are we gonna watch?", she asks.
Like a maestro, my index finger touches the “TV” button and then a quick move to the right touches the “power” button. Presto! There’s a funny indescribable noise (sort of sounds like a combination boing and blip … a blipoyng) then a blue screen appears.
Isn’t the word “maestro” cool? Don’t you find it as strange as I do, that the letters “ae” in maestro sound like “eye” … as if it were “m-eye-stro” … yet the “ae” in the name Michael sounds like “ah” while the letter “i” in Michael sounds like “eye” … It’s as if the word ‘m-eye-stro” should sound like “m-ah-stro” or the name “M-eye-ch-eye-l” should sound like “M-eye-ch-ah-l”.

Hmmmm? … anyway … she’s now looking at me …
"Wellllllll? What the hell are you thinking about? Turn it on already!"
Next … index finger to “cable” button … then like lightning … again to the “power” button! No noise … but there’s a distinct change of the LCD numbers on the cable box from the time of day to the last channel number viewed. “Awesome!” … I look over to her with a big grin … she turns to me … not impressed. The picture soon appears … Oops! Big Naked Boobies! Big Naked Boobies! … Emergency! Emergency! Ring finger, right hand down 8 buttons over two to the right … press, press … CNN … Safe!
“Phewwww!” … Slowly looking over … Oh-oh … Not a loving look coming back at me … (note to self) Ring finger, right hand needs work … Not fast enough.

"Are you kidding me?”, she says, almost, but not quite under her breath. Looking back at the screen … mouths moving but nobody’s talking.
As if by second nature my index finger hits the “auxiliary” button … then the “power” button … Sound from all around (hence … surround sound).
OK … now we’re ready! Middle finger down to number pad 3-0-1 … HBO … saw it … over two buttons right side … up arrow … 302 … re-run … back to keypad 8-0-4 … “Access Hollywood” … looking over … she’s finally smiling but I just can’t take that celebrity crap … keypad 8-0-7 … “Jeapody” … I know! I know! … "What is Pluto!” … I look over … so proud of myself … "I’m gonna send you to the freekin’ moon in a minute, where you can get a different view of Uranus! Now, change the channel you knit-wit!”
She loves me.

"Okay! Okay! I’ll find us something good."
Time for drastic measures … middle finger … long button … bottom center … the “DVR” button. I love DVR! I record all my favorite shows and watch them later.
There’s a long list … scan down, down again, down further, further … no … up … no back down … further … that’s all I got recorded? … Back up … further … further … “OW!” (as her almost loving slap to the back of my head sent it forward) … “Well, that was uncalled for!", I said.
"That’s it!", she said, ”I’m gonna read the newspaper.”
“No! Wait! Wait”, I pleaded. She sighed. My fingers went back into action.

The last resort … this has gotta work … Index finger up 14 buttons then left to the “On Demand” button. … Oh crap! Where to now? Where to now?
“Movies” button … then “New Movies?” … No they’re $4.99 a pop … “Free Movies”? … OK … “Drama”? … I look over … No smile … “Adventure”? … I look over … Still no smile … “Westerns”? … I don’t bother to look over … Ah here we go … “Romance” … I look over … Finally … a smile … Sorry, I just can’t … over one to “Comedy” … …
“You ass!”, she says, while getting up.
“Left hand!” … “Calling left hand” … "Danger! Danger!"
In my left hand … The DVD remote … Index finger, left hand … Top row … “Play” button … Press … Press … Contact!
Instantly … Granddaughter Lucia’s face fills the screen.
I look over … She sits, cuddles up, and smiles.
With remotes still in each hand … I concede.
I’ll just have to wait a few minutes 'til she falls asleep.

My FN Feet

2008-04-09T02:02:00.000-04:00

I love a good argument.
Growing up my mom used to tell me that I should become a lawyer.
I argued a lot with my parents. Mostly, I lost.
But I guess she thought I argued well enough to be a lawyer.
I don’t like debating … that’s way too formal for me.
Sometimes I like to swear when I argue … can’t do that in a debate.
One time … on a serious subject … I suggested to my wife that we should debate the issue.
She laughed and said … "What? You’re not going to swear?”
I thought it was funny too. I said ”Forget it!”
She had me … How can I win … laughing and not swearing?
I used to tell my kids … ”Don’t you argue with me!”
Now that I think of it … why would I do that?
I have deprived them of a skill I should have handed down to them.
Well … luckily … they’re women. Arguing comes natural to women.
We can argue about that … some other time, maybe.
See how I did that? You didn’t even have a chance to win that one.
Mom was right … I am good.
I’m even good at avoiding arguments.
”Honey, Do I look fat in this dress?” She’d challenge me.
”Oh sweetheart … “ I’d say ”… Have you taken a good look at me lately?” and without missing a beat, to keep her off balance, I add … "My hairline is so far back now I can’t tilt my head forward enough to see beyond my way-too bushy eyebrows and while I look into the mirror I can’t help but notice that I can actually comb over my ear and nose hairs to help the lack of hair beyond my forehead not to mention it all seems to be turning grey … which reminds me … look here at my grey chest hairs … OH MY GOD … I’m looking down and I can’t see my fn feet … where are my fn feet? Honey? I ask "Do you think I look too fat?”
Then she says “Oh honey, come here, you need a hug, stop being silly.”
Argument avoided … Argument in disguise, won … mom was right.

It's Baseball ... Look it up!

2008-04-07T21:42:00.001-04:00

Recently I added a new word to my vocabulary.
I believe verbal growth is important.
You don't want to ever run out of things to say.
In conversation, if I ever hear a new word I say …
"Stop!" "Please ... What was that you said?"
Usually there's a quizzical look staring back at me ... at least for a moment.
That's when I explain that I simply didn't understand.
A stranger and I were just talking about the Red Sox.
We were discussing how we both wished we could get to a game.
The word came right out of left field.
I was saying words like "banging out sick from work" ... "scalping" ...
"E-baying" ... "fagetaboutit"
He was saying words like "very expensive" ... "not having enough time" ...
"and besides I'm known to be an uxorious husband"
He chuckled while saying it ... you know ... as if he made a joke.
His wife (quietly standing next to him) smiled ...
as she turned and looked at him ever so lovingly.
"OMG! ... Nice move, guy!" ... I thought to myself.
I got to get me some of that.
I haven't seen that look in my wife's eye since I promised ...
if she really, really needed it ... I'd give her one of my kidneys.
"Stop!" “Please. I'm sorry. I didn't get that.”
Married for more than 35 years ... I've been many a type of husband.
Could I have missed one?
His explanation to me was ... "Oh ... My wife doesn't like baseball."
He wasn't very helpful with my quest for verbal growth.
The spelling is correct ... it took me 25 minutes to google it.
Sorry … I love my wife ... but ... uxorious ... I'm not.
For God's sakes ... We're talking BASEBALL here!

Sorry About the SSPCP

2008-04-05T13:00:00.001-04:00

It’s my day off. I get two a week. Today is one of them.
I’m here, coffee in hand …wondering how to start my day.
I’m not sure why ... but I think I’ll activate my super power.
Its a secret super power ... so don’t tell anyone.
I don’t really have to ask you to not tell my secret.
Later ... I will simply remove it from your mind.
I can do that ... its part of my power.
Any way ... my power ...
It has to do with mind reading, ESP and thought control.
I think I picked it up after a fall when I hit my head.
I’m not quite sure when that happened (or if it really did happen).
I do find it strange though ...
I can’t seem to use my power to figure out how I got it.
Only thing I can figure is ...
I must have used my power on myself ... removing the memory ...
So that I won’t possibly slip up and give my secret away.
See ... it works ... I told you.
Lets see ... There is a reason I’m telling you this.
I just can’t remember what it is ...
I assume, once again (yes its happened before) my power is out of control.
Which brings me to an important factor I think you should know.
I have discovered I have ...
“SSPCP” ... Super Secret Power Control Problem.
I will work on this ... Once I master control ...
I will not only remember messages I secretly sent out to you ...
But I will also discover what I have accidently erased from your memory.
So ... until then ... you can just blame me for the times you ...
Couldn’t find your keys ... forgot that important meeting or
missed a birthday ... I ‘m sorry.