Epic Tales of Hyperbole

I simply wanted to turn the ringer volume up on my phone.
While sitting in my creative cubby (a.k.a. cubicle) the phone rang, the caller left a message and I was left completely unaware.  Not exactly interesting, but I happened to notice that my ringer was nearly inaudible.  I tried to turn the ringer up to no avail.  The likely solution of the up/down buttons only increased/decreased the contrast.  I could find no other button or combo of buttons that would accomplish my goal and the menu system was so non descirpt and confusing it might as well be written in Sanskrit.

So I did the next best thing to Googling the problem, I asked a co-worker.  He was no help.  So I systematicly made my way through about 75% of the staff until I finally found someone smart enough to have conquered the phone volume.  My unofficial IQ test yielded some unexpected results: coming in at the top of the pile, Phillip McCart.  It’s not that I think Phillip doesn’t deserve the honor, its that I expected John Bishop to top the charts.  Consequently, scraping the bottom of the barrel, John Bishop.  Taking that honor because he could not figure out why his screen was completely dark; hello contrast button.

I’m not giving up on John though, I’m quite positive he’s much smarter than I am, and if he’s scraping the bottom, things aren’t looking good for me.  Really it was probably because he was too busy conjugating verbs in Hebrew.
The solution by the way, you have to hit the contrast buttons while someone is actually calling you in order to change the ringer volume.  Because contrast, on the nearly useless screen, is so much more important than the phone volume.

So here’s to you Phillip for keeping us at least one step ahead of the technology that may some day try to enslave us.

I’m just going to admit it.
I will take a stnad in hopes that it gives men out there the courage to take a stand… (Wade, John, I’m talking to you)

I watch chick flicks, and yes, I do occasionally enjoy them.

As a husband its pretty much a given that I’ve watched chick flicks. And as a man who loves his wife (Judy), I have the golden opportunity to cop out and say that I only watch them to make my wife happy. While this is absolutely true for many a movie, I find others quite delightful. And there is one other thing: I still love it how Judy grabs my arm and snuggles up when she sees something romantic and the way she squeezes my hand tight when a sad scene comes onto the screen. Somehow that look of love in her eye makes even the cheesiest movies the dumbest diatribe and the worst acting at least bearable.

Of course, everyone has to draw a line in the sand sooner or later. While I enjoy the occasional Hallmark movie and have a particular soft spot for Christmas chick flicks, I draw the line at Lifetime originals. Some men can comfortably cross that line, for me, the only thing worse is a root canal while watching a Lifetime original. But even that sounds a little more appealing; at least then I could say that I came out of it better than I went in.

The most recent by the way, “27 Dresses.” Not bad, dialogue was lacking and the male lead was poorly played, but a solid chick flick none the less. Testosterone Safe Zones (TSZ’s) of the movie: The main guy was basically a sarcastic cynic, the witchy chick got what was coming to her (even though it was made out to be a bad thing), and for once, in the history of chick flicks, none of the male characters were made out to be villains.

All in all about 3 1/2 out of 5 Brass Ones.

And in case you were wondering, there were at least 5 arm grabs, 3 head on the shoulder leans, 1 puppy dog face, and a couple ILY’s.

One instance is hardly enough to judge my desirability as a travel companion.

Let me submit this for your consideration…
Paris, France.

While there were instances a plenty, from angry spitting Frenchmen to a wallet stealing gypsy, the best story takes place at the Eiffel Tower. It was late in the afternoon of a long day, but my group and I were determined to explore the tower. Besides we had a tight schedule the rest of the weekend and we had several hours to explore before it closed for the evening. So up we climbed on the 704 steps to the second level, from there visitors are required to take an elevator to the top. From there we all dispersed to explore the tower and enjoy the view. Its amazing really how much time can be spent just looking at the city at night.

Before I knew it there were announcements in at least a dozen languages, none of which I could understand. Have you ever tried to understand something in any of a dozen languages through the equivalent of a McDonald’s drive through speaker? After intently listening four or five times, I gathered enough information to understand that the tower was closing and that everyone was to make a hasty exit. I meandered down to the second floor only to find that all of the stairwells had been closed and everyone that was left would have to wait in line for the one elevator still running. The facts were these, I was impatient, tired, and had just run into three of the more annoying ladies in our group. By annoying I mean badly singing random french songs at the top of their lungs. So I did what any gentleman would do and with cat-like moves I ditched the ladies by jumping over the fenced off stairwell. I was nearly a quarter way down when I heard someone yelling my name. Sure enough, the three women had followed me (not normally a bad thing) but couldn’t make it over the fence. Reluctantly I aided them over and we made our way down. About half way down we came across a a gate, just to be safe, I made sure to leave it open. Finally about an hour after the fast food announcements we made it to the first floor.

And then we realized that all of the lights were off and all of doors were locked, we could see outside to our freedom, but had no way of reaching it. Option A: go down into the bowels of the tower through the door labeled no entry on the other side of which seemed to be two angry Frenchmen smoking and using at least three of the seven french swear words that I knew. Option B: admit defeat, tuck tail and run back up the stairs. I’ve always enjoyed the letter B. Back up we went.

And then I discovered that one of the nice ladies accompanying me had decided to be polite and close the door behind her on the way down. Luckily it was a crash bar and after several attempts at looping my belt round the bar, I was able to secure our freedom. We made it back up to the second floor only to find a very angry cursing french elevator operator. It turns out that its pretty hard to avoid swearing Frenchmen, particularly when locked in the Eiffel Tower and that its kinda fun to say Frenchmen.

Frenchmen, Frenchmen, Frenchmen.

Today, while innocently making my way into Providence HS, I had a near-death experience.  It was a beauty pageant.  To my left were designer hand bags, dresses, jewelry and other items young beauty pageant contestants might be interested in purchasing.  To my right, well trained, rigid pageant officials.  Up ahead contestants waiting with doll-like statures; all I could think of was Chucky.  I couldn’t really see their faces through the makeup, but their very visible smiles chilled me (in the way that takes away the man and leaves a child about to pee his pants from fright).  And behind me, just through the the thick wall of air-choking haze were the nervous chain-smoking parents.  I was trapped.

There was at least a small desire to just accept my fate and give in to the tortures I would face.   But my fight or flight instinct kicked in and with the determination of a running back I dodged the contestants, plowed through the hoards of parents, picked a path and ran straight and true through the billows of smoke.

After coughing up a lung like a kid after his first toke of a cigarette, I looked around and realized I did it:  I stared death in the face and came out alive. 

In retrospect I wish I had taken some photos to share with you all, but like when you are running from the chainsaw wielding maniac, you don’t stop to look back, you just run.

Hello.
So there I sat staring at a bowl of oatmeal. ‘There must be something better to do tonight than just sit and watch TV,’ I thought to myself. ‘What if I started a blog? Everyone else I know has one, why shouldn’t I?’

Is it hypocritical that I once thought blogs were an oddity, an opportunity for exhibitionists to splat their lives and their thoughts for everyone to see? Possibly. I prefer to think of it as personal growth. (Splat by the way is the simplest way for me to explain the sound of oatmeal hitting the linoleum, just before my dog Maggie licks it up, and my wife Judy gives me a huff of frustration and a look of confusion.) So splat, here is my tale.