Top Fives

In following suit and jumping on the bandwagon, I've decided to compile my own list of Top Fives. Since I'm getting a late start, this'll be a two week extravaganza.

Stay tuned.

No mo' joe.

I walked into the work break room this morning to come upon the fresh aroma of cheap coffee. Usually, I'm turned off by this unsightly smell because I'm enjoying my own gourmet java at my desk. But not today. Today, I'm cut off -- and it's not just my favorite dark-roasted, semi-toasted, freshly ground, full flavored brew. I'm taking a break from all caffeine.

It started my freshman year of college. I drank 2-4 cups of coffee a week -- more for all-nighters. When I started working at the campus newspaper, I had to drink more than one cup in a day. Then, with my induction to the full-time world I bought my first insulated mug, to keep my hot brew...hot, on the rides to work.

Thus it began. Not only did the artificial energy keep me drinking, the taste was (and still is) most appealing too. Now I grind whole gourmet and flavored beans for a fresher taste. My coffee pot works over-time on a daily basis.

This needs to stop.

I read an article from last week's New Yorker called "The Eureka Hunt."

Initially drawn by a favorite quip and my own nickname, I started reading to discover how humans form insights. The article itself discusses the importance of coming to an impasse, or roadblock, in an idea or problem you're working on. You then have to let your mind wander. Insights, or "Aha!" solutions, come about mostly through the right hemisphere making small, and seemingly disconnected, thoughts come together to create an answer.

What does this have to do with caffeine?

The doctor's interviewed explained that although caffeine, along with other focus-inducing stimulants, helps people concentrate on something in particular; it might hinder the brains ability to think creatively, and let the mind wander. When our minds wander, the brain can connect these unrelated thoughts and make us conscious of the answer we didn't know we were looking for.

So today I'll be sitting at my desk, either coming up with great ideas to reduce air pollution, cure cancer and create an efficient way to keep my desk organized; or drooling facedown in a coffee-deprived coma.

The Toof

I don't think I lost all my baby teeth. In fourth grade, I remember having loose teeth and waiting for them to fall out... but I have a memory lapse -- I got braces in fifth grade (and had them until junior year of high school; I was THAT big of a nerd.)

Did I lose all of them? What if I still have teeth that are going to fall out?

Why do we only have one set of teeth? After you're seven years old, you're stuck with the ones you've got. Too bad if they get knocked out, get cavities, or rot out of your mouth.

I'm not much for dream interpretation, but I distinctly remember reading that dreams about teeth falling out mean a change in your life. Not sure if it's just a big, upcoming event, or a change you hope to implement.

A couple weeks ago, I had one of those dreams. Like most, I can't remember everything that happened. I've probably had about half a dozen dreams about teeth, ever.

Does that mean I didn't lose all my baby teeth? Is change coming? Am I crazy?

I don't know; but, I did decide to cut my hair last week.

Check please!

There are some jobs everyone should try, in order to respect their fellow mensch.

I've worked in a call center for a bank (never, ever, ever again). My inaugural employment started by serving Big Macs (I still have a tie-dyed "Get Back With Big Mac" t-shirt. Somewhere. We had to wear Lennon-esque shades. It was torture). My high school job consisted of learning every department of our local grocery store (They made me wear a band-aid over my nose ring.)

Last night, I waitressed for the sixth time in my life. I was the only one serving food, with tables of 10 requesting to eat. Chaos. In general, food service is the most under-appreciated, sweat-inducing, high-stressed job.

Wisconsin employees earn $6.50 per hour for minimum wage. Servers earn $2.33 per hour. That's almost one-third the regular amount. Theory is, we're earning tips.

First, you get drinks. Then you take their order. Bring ketchup and condiments. Don't forget napkins, and silverware. If they want a refill? Tough. You wanted a water, with lemon -- and no ice? It's water, honey. Oh, heavy on the Bacardi in your rum & coke? I'm sorry, take it up with the bartender. You want your appetizer before the actual meal? Nope.

You're at the mercy of the cook, because they control the food. I can apologize, bring more napkins and refill drinks... but that doesn't cook the food faster. Or make it more tasty.

Until now, I took servers for granted. I tipped the general 15 percent for a decent meal. Not anymore.

The next time you eat out, and your server brings you ketchup with the meal or asks if you need a refill without prompting; return the favor by paying her back. Literally.

Restroom woes

I walked down to the bathroom today to do my business, expecting a nice 5-10 minute hiatus from the cubicle. I enter, look around and see the bathroom's empty. I go for the last stall, no one around. Perfect.

All of a sudden, I hear someone enter. Walking briskly, six other stalls before her -- she stops, slams and latches the door... RIGHT NEXT TO ME.

WTF.

I think, the public bathroom happens to be one of the more private places to retreat at work. Although there's only a 1/2-inch thick metal wall between me and the rest of the world, I'd like to think I'm all alone when nature calls. So don't sit next to me.

When guys go to the bathroom, do they instinctively gravitate toward the lone man taking a leak, while surrounded by three urinals on either side?

Why, then, would someone feel so inclined to pee right next to me?

Birthday presence

This Saturday my brother, Matthias, turns 23 years old.

For the last 22.8 years, I thought his birthday was on July 27. Not so. I can tell you it's on the 26th. I guarantee it.

I plan to drive up to GB this weekend for his birthday. Now, I think my visiting would be an exceptional present, but I'm afraid he'd disagree with me.

I need some ideas.

He likes playing his 360, watching MST3K, the Marx Brothers and Monty Python, speaking German, and has the uncanny ability to recall random facts about medieval and WWII history. He also likes dinosaurs. At least he did when he was eight.

Maybe I'll take him to see The Dark Knight. That's a good bday present, right? Except anytime I go somewhere with him alone, I think people think we're dating; and that's weird.

Word games

I read Merriam-Webster's Word of the Day on a daily basis. It helps expand my lexicon; and I like learning.

Today's word:

bogart (BOH-gart) v.
1. to bully, intimidate
2. to use or consume without sharing


Here are some fun words you should incorporate into your vocabulary today.

bezonian (bye-ZOH-knee-uhn) n.
an indignant rascal; a scoundrel.

"That bezonian didn't even pay up for his share of the bill."

bibliobibuli (bib-leo-bib-u-lee) n.
those who read too much.

ecdysiast (ek-dizzy-ast) n.
a stripper; stripteaser

katzenjammer (kat-zin-jam-err) n.
1. a hangover
2. distressed
3. a loud, discordant noise

mordant (more-dunt) adj.
biting and caustic in thought; bitingly sarcastic

pulchritude (pull-kra-tude) n.
attractiveness

(my brother really likes this word, for some reason.)

squiffed (sk-wiffed) n.
intoxicated, drunk

"Because I was squiffed after drinking an entire bottle of Jack Daniels last night, I have a mad katzenjammer this morning."


There are also a couple things I didn't know there were words for.


aglet (ey-glet) n.
the plastic tip on the end of a shoelace

gound (g-ow-nd) n.
the gunk that collects in the corners of the eyes during sleep

octothorpe (ah-kt-o-th-or-p) n.
the '#' symbol; also, "octothorp."



You can find more here.

Snail mail

It costs 42 cents for the USPS to deliver a letter for you. So today I decided to send a card to my friend Amanda. It's not even her birthday.

Since becoming almost completely dependent on the Internet for paying bills, shopping, email, IMs, socializing and almost all other human interaction, I've realized that technology hinders peoples' ability to be sincere -- sans emoticons ;oD

What happened to sending a genuine, poor punctuation-laden, misspelled paper letter?

I remember when I only used to send snail mail.

Until I was 12 years old, my mom sent my brother and I up to Sturgeon Bay every summer to stay in a cottage by the lake with my grandparents. I dreaded it, hated it, loathed it; and despised my mom for sending us there. So isolated, so quiet, so peaceful. How terrible. All summer.

I filled a hot pink pencil box with stickers, pens, postcards, stationery and stamps. Twice a week, I'd sit at the kitchen table and write out letters to my friends, my mom and my dad, my other grandma. I'd mention canoing under a 5 ft. carp, why Matthias was annoying the hell out of me, my newly constructed fort in the woods, or how grandpa wouldn't let us leave the table until we finished our sauerkraut.

I would write out every address and lick every stamp. I'd even write messages on the back of the envelope, after I sealed it. (In case I forgot to mention something.)

I loved writing letters. But more than sending them, I loved getting them. Biking up to the mailbox between 1-3 PM was the highlight of my weekdays.

Funny, the chime of my inbox doesn't really have the same effect...

A new 'do

(I emailed myself last night before going to bed.)

Holy shit. They took six inches off. I make myself feel better saying
it's the back six inches. So if you look at the front, maybe they only
took four. I went home and cried a little. It wasn't a wail, or bawling. Just a
few tears.

I haven't cut my hair like this since I graduated from college. Wow.
Graduated from college. I feel dinosaur saying it. (Attempting to create a new "slang.")

I moved here two years ago. Almost two years ago. About?
I think maybe the cut means I'm moving to another stage. I have to
figure out what I'm doing.
I made a proclamation today on my blog. To be fitter. happier. more
productive (thanks Thom Yorke).

I dyed it too. Blonde. That was Friday. Really blonde. Publisher
attention-getting blonde. (Michelle's boss((es) boss))
That took a minute to figure out on the keyboard.

I hung a spice rack yesterday. I went to Wal-Mart for screws and
borrowed a power drill. It was a Snap-on, the shit I write about at work.
Weird. Found out I already had a box full of screws when I got home.
I bought the shelf at Hobby Lobby. 50 percent off. Wrought iron? I doubt it.
Awesome? You bet.
I also put up curtains in my living room. Real ones. Well, they're on
a rod. They're tapestries. Fuck, I've had those curtains up at every
important place since college. But I finally put them up.

I still have the drill. I might put up a shelf tomorrow. I've got
nothing going on. But I would like to watch Batman Begins. With
Christian Bale. What a man.

I might also have to get that air conditioner in. That thing
intimidates the shit out of me. First of all, it's a huge box. Almost
like my first appliance for Christ's sake. I own a coffee maker. I own
a metal shelf to hold my spices. I have a desk. A bed. But an air
conditioner?! What in the hell am I going to do with an air
conditioner for the rest of my life.
I don't need to take up more energy by using that goddamn thing.

Part of me is scared to install it because then I'll be anchored. I'm
putting my carbon footprint on the ground. Smashing it in.
Now, I do have a car. I try not to drive it every day. That's not really
working, but I try. But I also live in the city I work. I'm not a
"commuter." It takes me 3 minutes to drive to work. Thirty to walk.
Hell, people ride their bikes for 17 miles. Those are usually the
people in big cities, so they have a more scenic view in the morning.
A city view. At least they yield for bicyclists. You'll get tackled by
the bumper of a 74-year-old with a 24-yr old prescription for
Coke-bottle glasses here.

Are people intentionally putting up more pedestrian signs to help
promote walking or bike riding? The green scene.

Dammit. I have to collect those cell phones tomorrow too. I need to get a
box and mail those in. I should put one out at FBz too. Maybe I
can get a few fons donated.

Fuck. I just read the subject of this email. To myself. I forgot for a
second that I cut my hair.

I'll sleep on it.

Ill health effects

Perusing my weekly subscription to TIME magazine last week, I come to find out that we're in the midst of the three-week, high-endurance test of athleticism, the Tour de France.

The 21-stage race runs July 5-27, with 169 riders traveling 3,653.6 km, or about 2,270 miles.

The biggest problem with today's cyclists is whether or not they take any performance-enhancing drugs. Otherwise, their in shape and ridiculously healthy. Not so when the event kicked off.

"Between stages, teams feasted on banquets and champagne; before climbs, they fortified with cigarettes."

I'd fit right in with the 1903 crew. They would be gluttonous and get trashed the night before. Not to mention, smoke while riding because they thought it would improve their respitory functions.

Now, I try to exercise at least four times a week. I also attempt to eat well; sans social drinking and eating on weekends. Oops. But when I drink, I have the habit of smoking cigarettes. Not healthy.

Well, I started off on the left foot this morning. (South paw. OH, terrible joke.) I woke up at 5:30 AM to work out with my neighbor. Then I made an omelet for breakfast and packed a lunch with strawberries, yogurt and a salad.

I think my biggest downfall is lack of motivation. I need instant gratification, instead of waiting a day or two -- or a week, or months -- to feel the postive effects. So I'm going to be healthier. Now.

Any suggestions on how?

Skeeter Syndrome

On Tuesday, I was forced to do laundry at the ghetto south side laundromat in Fort Atkinson. (The other one closes at 9 PM, so I had to take all my wet clothes somewhere else. Assholes.) This is the place that has gum stuck in at least 20 percent of the dryers. Blotched carpet from spilled detergent. Sticky seats from pudgy, unsupervised, Kool-Aid-drinking kids. Shredded magazines from November 2003. The place was empty except a running dryer from someone who stepped out, so I had the place to myself. So I thought...

I threw my laundry into a dryer, turned on the Brew Crew and started reading my T.R. biography, when I felt a sting on my left thigh. Then, my right thigh. Then, buzzing close to my right forearm, I saw it; the size of my thumbnail. A mosquito.

Sometimes it takes me awhile to realize things about myself. For instance, I have skis for feet. I'm abnormally short. I snore really loud. I forget things alot. Giving blood makes me pass out. And, I'm severely allergic to mosquitoes.
Until about two years ago, I thought my scratching reaction to mosquito bites was normal. Now I've realized, I might suffer from "Skeeter Syndrome."Whenever I have a bug bite, my immune system goes nuts.

I slapped down on my arm and smeared the sucker all over that sticky bench. It drew blood, but I won! But then -- I immediately started scratching my wounds.

Three days later, and I still have welts the size of half dollars on my legs. It takes all my willpower not to scratch, and I don't. But they're still red, swollen, and all around disgusting battle wounds.

West Nile doesn't concern me. And really, I don't think contracting malaria will be a problem, because I'm not living in the thick jungles of Africa.

I thought by now, bug bites wouldn't phase me. After all, when I was a kid I'd be stuck on some remote lake in Sturgeon Bay with my grandparents every summer. I've probably been bit by thousands of mosquitoes. Shouldn't I be immune by now?

This sounds like a book report.

I'm reading The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt by Edmund Morris. I don't usually get into biographies, but it's the first pick for our book club. (And it won the Pulitzer, so it has to be engaging, right?)
After reading Chad's post on whether it's better to be loved and forgotten or hated and remembered, I thought about Teddy's first wife. Before T.R. was with his famous first lady he had married his college sweetheart, Alice Lee Hathaway.
If I had to pick an answer, it'd be loved and forgotten. Right now matters, because I can feel it. I won't really care after I'm dead (as far as I know). But I modified my response to a hybrid of the two; I'd want to be loved and remembered by those who matter.
Anyway, Roosevelt was completely infatuated with Hathaway throughout his college career at Harvard, and pursued her until she accepted. He called her is "darling little wife" and wanted to build her a mansion, show her off at society functions, etc.
In retrospect, he probably saw her more as a prize he won as opposed to a compatible spouse... but that's getting off topic.
SPOILER ALERT -- Alice died two days after giving birth to their only child. Not to mention, Teddy's mom died the same day, in the same house. T.R. was destroyed, but instead of mourning, he tried completely voiding her from his memory.

"Like a lion obsessively trying to drag a spear from its flank, Roosevelt set about dislodging Alice Lee from his soul. Nostalgia, a weakness to which he was abnormally vulnerable, could be indulged if it was pleasant, but if painful it must be suppressed, 'until the memory is too dead to throb.'" (232)

Details show it's clear he tried erasing any memory of her after she died. Photos were ripped up, letters destroyed. Roosevelt even avoided acknowledging she existed in his own autobiography. She was loved, but forgotten by the person that mattered to her.

That's what I wouldn't want.



And I might've started a book discussion. Oops.

Well here we are.

I started a blog about a month ago, but I don't remember what it was called. Shows how often I actually posted.
So I'm trying this again. You may notice I'm terrible at complete sentences, and I use punctuation freely. Deal with it. I have a poetic license; so I can put a semi-colon where I damn well please. Plus, my profession gives me sway.
This blog will namely focus on the events that are my life. What I read about, who I talk to, what I do. All enthralling, I'm sure.