A lot of Maybes

I’m not sure I really know what OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) exactly includes. My basic knowledge of OCD comes from two things: the Jack Nicholson movie, As Good as it Gets, and an episode of MTV’s True Life called I have OCD. In the movie, Nicholson’s character washes his hands a bunch and he’s really angry. I don’t think the anger part has anything to do with OCD, so I guess it’s just obsessive hand washing. *One time, I met some friends for happy hour after an SAT class that I taught and I had dry eraser soot all over my hands. I washed my hands about five times in the bathroom to get it out from under my nails, and this drunk guy was apparently standing behind me for the entire time and eventually said, “Ready for surgery, doctor?” Top 10 funniest things someone has ever said to me in a bathroom. On True Life, the people had all sorts of weird rituals, as they call them. One guy laid out 30 pieces of toilet paper before he went number two. That just sounds smart to me. Get everything in order before you take care of business, especially if you plan on making a big mess like he was fixing to do. He also coughed a bunch. Maybe coughing is part of OCD. Also, there was a girl who tapped her food 3 times before she crammed it into her mouth. She was a woman of girth so maybe it was good that she did that. I’ve heard that the slower one eats, the less one will eat. If one eats fast, the body doesn’t process that it’s full until it’s too late. Maybe she should start tapping her food a hundred times.

My point of bringing this all up is that when I go to the gym, I always make sure to arrange the free weights in my area before I walk away – not just my weights, but what others before me left disorganized. Is this OCD? No, I know it’s not. I think people with OCD get anxiety when their rituals aren’t performed or are interrupted. I don’t feel anxious, but I do feel annoyed that I do it. I mentioned in a previous post that I get annoyed when people run the wrong way on the track. Well, the weight disarray thing is worse to me. I guess some people weren’t properly educated on gym etiquette. Maybe they’re just a-holes. Who knows?

I propose that gyms start color coding weights, like the 45 lb plates are red; the 35 lb plates are blue, etc. Maybe these people’s childhood instincts to put colors with other like colors will be tapped. Also, maybe the colors will create shame spirals in these people. The red colored weight will make then think of a baboon’s ass, which is also red. “I’m a red baboon’s ass for not putting this back.” Seriously, most people are stupid. I am, clearly, no rocket scientist. No, no, please, I’m not. But, most people in this world are stupid and inconsiderate. Maybe there should be more color coding for the stupid, I mean truly stupid, people. I imagine these people go to the grocery store and just buy things because they know it’s the right color. “I don’t drink the red canned cola; I drink the black canned cola.” Or, they know how to get home because their house is the light brown one, not the yellow one.

This color coding system is why we can drive without the constant fear of getting into a wreck. Someone made the wise decision back in the day to just have colors to tell us when to stop or go in the car. If stop signs where white and with black letters, I bet car wrecks would increase 3 fold.

Back to the point, I’m not a cynical person and I don’t suffer from OCD. I just want the weights to be put back in the right spot. I mean, come on, they’re different sizes!

That’s how I know where to put them.

Death Date: August 13, 2054

I have a lifetime subscription to Rolling Stone magazine. That’s right, lifetime. According to my online account,  Rolling Stone has predicted my death date to be August 13, 2054. It is a lifetime subscription and it ends, like the hourglass of my life. A man from Rolling Stone who smells like Cheech Marin will appear at my door to end my subscription. I was born in August of 1980, so that means I’m going to die when I’m 73. It’s kind of a sad realization but Rolling Stone knows all.

However, this is all beside the point. How do I even have a lifetime subscription? My mom got a subscription for me every year in high school, so maybe after 4 years of subscriptions, they decided to show their loyalty to me! No, despite what I would like to believe, they are a faceless, soulless entity like any other corporation. They just want me to order Viagra and fake diamond, skull encrusted belt buckles from the ads in the back of the magazine.

I talked to my dad about my lifetime subscription once, and he told me that I’d grow out of Rolling Stone soon enough and wouldn’t want it anymore. I thought, No way man! I’m gonna keep on a-rocking! And, actually, I still read every issue I get, though it might start fading as I get older. Really, though, I’d read any magazine in the world as long as it was placed on my bed stand. I read Us Weekly whenever we get one (despite the name, it comes whenever it comes); it should be called Us Once-in-a-While. I will admit that I enjoy reading the Who Wore it Best section, especially when they compare two people who have no business being compared; I saw Heidi Klum vs. Serena Williams. Beauty and Beast, homey.

I do feel like many of the things I liked when I was younger are completely lost on me now. I used to religiously watch The Real World, and now I hate it. I watched the MTV Movie Awards last night and the only part I liked was when Reese Witherspoon chastised all of the celebrities with sex tapes and nude cell phone pictures for not being embarrassed. I’m getting old, people. Soon I will watch the Weather Channel… more so. I’ll tape (because I won’t know how to DVR) episodes of Murder, She wrote. I will watch JAG.

Well, on the bright side, I learned that my mom actually bought the lifetime subscription for me for $50 when I left for college. So, if I really think about it, my mom is buying something for me every month! Ya! I feel young again; my mommy is buying stuff for me still!

Bonk. Bonk. Run. Bonk. Run. Bonk

As you can probably tell, if you’re a regular reader of my blog, I’m a odd yet even mixture of tolerance and impatience. As a teacher and a coach, I am almost boundless in my ability to wait until my students or athletes understand my point or purpose. My tank is seemingly unlimited in these arenas; however, there isn’t much left for the rest of my life – my great, lovely wife gets a majority of the remainder. With that being said, I want to go on a rampage on the track at the middle school near my house. When I go running, I start off in a pissed off mood because I’m, well, running. Here is a kind of stream of consciousness, lap-by-lap account of my 3 mile run:

Lap 1: Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. Bonk (I say that in my head when I run and my head bounces around at the beginning). Bonk. Bonk. Bonk. I hope those kids playing soccer on the track in front of me move out of the way as I pass them. I can’t veer from my path. Any extra distance will mess up my 3 mile run. Don’t want to do anymore than I have to. I made it by them, though they didn’t seem to take any notice of my running as I lumbered by them.

Lap 2: Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh. Uh (Go from bonk to uh). Uh. Uh. Uh.  I feel like falling asleep while I run. Maybe if I close my eyes while I run, I’ll feel better. I want some milk. Mmm… milk. There is a blockade of women coming at me. Don’t they know we run counter-clockwise on tracks? Maybe they weren’t taught that in their high school in their country. Maybe in the southern hemisphere they run the opposite way. Hmmm… maybe like the Coriolis Effect. I’m too polite to say anything but annoyed to let this problem go unsung. I’ll give them a dirty look. Dirty look possibly the same as I’m-running look. Reevaluate later.

Lap 3: Breathing in through my nose and exhaling through my mouth. A girl told me to do that in college once. Don’t know if it works because I can’t do it for longer than a lap. Girl’s walking her dog on the track. That shouldn’t be. I will throw an internal hissy fit if that dog poops on the track. That soccer ball is going to hit me I know it. I am SO going to punt it over the school if it hits me. God, help me, I will f*ing punt it. F*ing punt it so far that they won’t even be able to find it. Never.

Lap 4: Did I run 2 or 3 laps already? What’s a good way to remember this? I can remember letters better. I am on D right now. Did A,B, and C. I’m on D now. Ding dong, ding-a-ling-a-ding-dong. Donkey. Dog. Der. Der. Der. Here comes that blockade of women. Look at my face! Do you see me rolling my eyes, Coriolis sisters? Huh? These eyes… they roll for you. LOOK AT THEM. Do. Do. Do. Do.

Lap 5: Er. Er. Er. Er. Elephant. F*ing soccer ball. Everything. Boys are hitting pop flys over the track. Why are they doing that? Ethel. Ethel. Ethel. I swear to God I will throw their f*ing baseball so far if it hits me. So… far. Where are their parents? Ellie. Ellie. Ellie. Ellie. Maybe I should stop running so I can take these boys’ dads out. What? Yeah, your boy’s ball hit me? My fist is about to hit you – in the nose. That’d be so sweet. Uh, hon, why do you have a bloody nose? Some bad ass punched me in the nose for not watching Billy more closely. Sometimes it takes a broken nose to learn. Nostril, mouth. Nostril, mouth. Move Coriolis girls.

Lap 6: F-word. F-word. F-word…

Lap 7: GD-word. GD-word. GD-word…

Lap 8: Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate. Hate…

And so on…

This would go on and on until I either finished the 3 miles or left early in a quiet and peaceful protest that no one knows about but me. I’m working on a letter that would go in our community newspaper about track education classes. In a classroom setting, I feel like I’d have more patience and not want to kick their f*ing soccer balls over the f*ing, stupid school with its smelly face.

Skeletor

I coach summer league swimming in May and June – one of the reasons why I have so much trouble posting as often as I would like is because I get home at 8:00 every night. The other problem is my wife has grown increasingly concerned about me taking care of myself and using sunscreen every day. She bought 100+ SPF sunscreen for me the other day. I’m not sure what 100+ SPF sunscreen is made out of but I think it includes lead and possibly cement. It’s the stuff Superman puts on his skin to handle Kryptonite. It’s the stuff Arnold used to prevent the Predator from seeing him. My wife has put this idea in my head that parts are going to start falling off of my head. I think my mom used to tell me this when I was a kid, too, because I’ve always envisioned this is what happened to Skeletor from He-man. Here’s a picture if you don’t know what I’m talking about:

No nose.

Well, I’m definitely not a naturally evil person but maybe after my nose and ears fall off I will follow Skeletor’s descent into villainy. I bet he was always jealous of He-man’s sweet, golden brown skin and hated him every since. So, when my nose falls off, I’ll need to focus my aggression on someone who has what I want. Well, my wife has a better car than me, so you better hope my nose stays on, Wife.

Here are two pictures of my dog as Skeletor:

Anti-Social Me 1256

I’m an ultra punctual person. I’m never late for anything. For me, 15 minutes early is on time. However, I realized recently that this punctuality directly conflicts with my anti-social nature. Let me explain: I get to places early and end up having to make small talk with acquaintances or strangers while we wait for whatever we’re there for to begin. Someone needs to start up some classes that teach people like me how to make small talk. I have no chit-chat abilities. Like, is there some secret topic that I can bring up to engage others and prevent them from talking about whatever they want to talk about? Here are some ideas for after the hellos off of the top of my head:

1.    “I just bought a boat.” This one comes from Seinfeld. He used it to get a girl who might question him off topic. The problem with this is that I’d need to research boats because what happens when they know a lot about boats and I don’t? I’ll be searching answers to their detailed questions. I could say, “Well, I just bought it today, so I don’t know the ins and outs yet.” I could just tell them the color. “It’s white with blue trim. Real reminiscent of the Spanish Armada.” I could also say it has some sort of interesting name and get double off topic and talk about the name. “It’s the USS Banana Hammock.” I would then go into detail about how it got the name. I’d talk about the irony of the USS part because it’s actually quite small, though I don’t know the exact dimensions. The Banana Hammock part could be some sort of anecdote about the previous captain’s predilection toward Speedos. Then I would go into the color of his banana hammock. “White with blue trim… ha ha ha ha ha.” Checkmate person. And, guess what? The meeting just started.  

2.    “I spent all morning watch and editing Chris Mullin highlights to put on Youtube.” The problem with this is that I’d need to explain to the person that I’m not racist. You see, I figure one would need to have a bit of the old white power mentality in them to create a Chris Mullin highlight reel. Like, who cares about Chris Mullin besides people who want to prove that white people can play basketball, too? Maybe a family member would do it, so I could actual go down that route and say I’m his cousin. I think the family member angle would be harder because they’d ask questions about him. On the other hand, they would never be able to crosscheck my assertions, so I could go wherever I wanted with this. “Oh yeah, Chris is real into anime. Probably the biggest collection in Carson City. Oh, you didn’t know how lives there? Yeah, he’s a big Area 51 nut so he likes to be close to the scene but not too close.” Ding. The meeting started.

3.    “I have to use the restroom.” This always works in extreme situations, but, like I said, I get to places 15 minutes early. Spending over 10 minutes in a restroom only means one thing: drug use. Were you thinking pooping? Geez, come one, I have more class than that. So, if you’re okay with the people thinking you’re doing lines off of their fine marble counter tops then by all means go for it. I, on the other hand only, use this method just for getting out of conversations and not waiting for meetings to start.

Three is all I have for now. They are three perfect outs though. I fail to see any holes in the logic here.  Try them, pitch them in strong.

Ooo... nice.

In my last post, I wrote about being a man of routine. And, one recent major hiccup in my routine of work, gym, and sleep has been going to the chiropractor. I mentioned in an earlier post how I was nervous about getting my neck popped. You’ll be happy to know that he popped my neck without paralyzing me. In fact, I have found the whole process to be great. It’s like getting a manly massage.

I feel like getting a normal massage is girly. I got one in the Bahamas when I got married, and while it felt good, I felt silly the whole time. I kept wanting to say, “Harder.” I don’t know what my deal is but I just wanted to be pounded like a piece of meat being tenderized. Am I a latent homosexual? Your call.

Well, my chiropractor meets those… needs. He’s like 190 lbs and just puts all of his weight into popping my back. He really seems to like it, too. And, I get it. I like popping my wife’s toes. Whenever she’s lying in bed, I walk by and pull her toes until they pop. I don’t know if it’s just me or if it’s a guy thing.

When he starts popping me, he lets out noises and expressions of satisfaction. He’ll pop my neck and say, “Ah, that’s the stuff, “or just, “Ooo.. nice.” He asks me, “Does that feel good?” every time he pops my neck. He’s obviously getting some enjoyment from popping my poppable places. Like, I said, I get it. I think being a chiropractor would be the best job ever. Just sit around all day popping people’s backs and getting that money.

I wonder if he gets home and talks about popping people’s backs to his wife. “Ah, honey, there was this big guy here and I just wrecked his back. I just put all of my weight on his back and BAM! Just fantastic. Oh God, it was fantastic.”

She probably gets annoyed with it.

But, I’d get it.

My Tickets Have Seats on Them for a Reason

I’ve reached the point of exhaustion when it comes to funny and/or interesting stories. I have nothing left to give you, blog reading community. I thought I’d always be able to pump out a post every other day, and here I am with almost nothing to write.

 I thought if I started off like this, I’d be able to come up with something as I write. I always tell my students to just start writing and eventually they’d have something in the mess the spewed on their Word document. It usually works, so I’m going to take my own advice.

I’ve always felt like my strength as a blog writer is telling funny stories or coming up with asinine gripes. The problem is that very little changes in my life. I’m a man who follows a routine. Routine is good, m’kay? I guess I should write about recent events in my life that haven’t been the routine. Well, here goes nothing. My wife and I went to the Arcade Fire concert last week. As far as I know, they haven’t played in Houston since they first started, so it was a big deal because they are one of my favorite bands.

Fun fact: the lead singer actually spent some of his youth in The Woodlands, TX, which is a suburb of Houston.

The show surpassed my expectations. About 3 songs into the show, my wife, the little scamp she is and eyeing the empty seats 4 rows in front of us, wanted to move up. This became one of those moments when I realized I’m getting old. I dug my metaphorical heals into ground and refused to move, like a dog who doesn’t want to take a piss in the rain (sorry, it’s raining and Earl won’t take a piss outside). I felt old and, dare I say, too mature to step over those seats in front of us. I am NOT a high school kid! No, we’ll stay the course back here, I thought. When those people get to their seats, my wife will thank me for saving her the embarrassment of having to crawl back over the seats to our own. Yes, women love men who refuse to take chances. Here’s an idea for a romance novel: woman is kept against her will in a tower by a medieval baron, and the strapping, lovelorn goat herder continues herding goats. “They make towers for a reason, damn it!” I think that’ll get the women swooning.

Eventually, after much debate and inner turmoil, we moved up, and the last 3 songs were just fantastic. This was my sky diving, my running with the bulls, my swimming with the sharks. My wife, obviously impressed with my aplomb, asked me to kill a spider that night.

 I met that challenge.