I haven't shopped in a clothes store since Gore invented the Internet.
Do you remember those commercials where a man in a department store would look under a clothes rack and find a few other men hiding in the rack watching football while their wives or otherwise female escorts shopped? That didn't exist when I was growing up. In fact, the advent of chairs in the women's department didn't cross some brilliant marketers head until I was in my late 20s. I am from the generation of males who grew up with their mom dragging them to those giant department stores like Macy's in the women's section while she shopped for herself. It always started on a bright Saturday morning with "Cary, you need a shirt" and ended up, many (many) hours later, driving home with a car trunk full of clothes. I might have a new shirt, but usually not.
Yes folks, I lived the nightmare. It was a bad enough childhood ordeal that I have a sister with the same condition I have - IFreakingHateShoppingophobia. This is extremely rare - not that I have a sister, but that a female has the same issue from the traumatic events growing up.
When I returned from NYC I decided to freshen my wardrobe with the latest in fashion. Of course this was done online, like anyone else who has IFreakingHateShoppingophobia. The shirts fit like a glove, except in a shirt type of way. I might add that I look fabulous in them. It's easy to buy online... you go to your closet, pick out a shirt or pants that fit you, look at the size and order the same size. Two or three days later you too can walk down the runway.
Unfortunantly they apparently changed the size of pants since I ordered the same size I always do and they were too tight. Tight as in I had to unzip the zipper so my jewels could breath. Anyone who knows me (I'm looking at both of you) would understand instantly that I didn't return them. Instead I took a different tact and decided to go on a diet so that I could continue ordering the same pant-size I have since I was in my 20s. Okay 30s.
This morning I woke up a little down since I knew I needed a haircut; Since my hair started it's journey of thinning this means the time-in-chair gets shorter even as the cost gets larger. As an aside, why can't inflation work on my hair also?
As I get ready to shower for my trip to Haircuts-R-Us I eyed those pants that refused to fit. I looked at my belly... the pants... the belly... the pants. I recklessly dived into the ill-fitting pants and low and behold they finally fit after months of military-like dieting (without the military or hard-core dieting part)!
Now that I know they fit and I'm looking sharp with my new haircut there's only one thing left to do: I dressed up in my new pants and went to McDonalds for a celebration feast.
Does anyone have an extra button... about 3/4 in diameter for a pair of brown pants?
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
One for the reader(s)...
Both of my readers independently told me this week that they were going to stop reading my blog unless I met their demands. One was simple: add another blog post (check).
The other reader was more demanding.... he required a follow up to my break-out blog post and expose "Recycle This" that rocked the nation and created an internet storm. I almost retired from that one blog post, but in the end I decided a $10 bribe from my mom wasn't enough to stop blogging. Besides, I don't think she's good for the money.
He's proud of his composter. In a weird way. Then again, anyone who is proud of their composter has to have a mental defect. This probably explains a) why he reads my blog and b) he not only took pictures of his composter, but sent them to me.
Those who are squeamish seeing vegetables slowly degenerating into soil, avert your eyes now. Children under 10 should be asked to leave the room. For here, my reader(s), is the composter in all it's glory:
I still get shivers when I see the beautiful soil. Compost... it's not just for lunch anymore.
For those who are wondering how you too can get into some composting action, here's the make and model. I find it ironic that it uses electricity.
As an aside, I thought long and hard about doctoring the photos and to add a little poo... in the end I decided while my composting reader would get it, my other read might be grossed out.
The other reader was more demanding.... he required a follow up to my break-out blog post and expose "Recycle This" that rocked the nation and created an internet storm. I almost retired from that one blog post, but in the end I decided a $10 bribe from my mom wasn't enough to stop blogging. Besides, I don't think she's good for the money.
He's proud of his composter. In a weird way. Then again, anyone who is proud of their composter has to have a mental defect. This probably explains a) why he reads my blog and b) he not only took pictures of his composter, but sent them to me.
Those who are squeamish seeing vegetables slowly degenerating into soil, avert your eyes now. Children under 10 should be asked to leave the room. For here, my reader(s), is the composter in all it's glory:
As an aside, I thought long and hard about doctoring the photos and to add a little poo... in the end I decided while my composting reader would get it, my other read might be grossed out.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Recycle This!
A friend of mine just received a new toy, and as the old saying goes “boys love their toys”. This isn’t you average gadget though… it has a green aura around it that makes the tree huggers out there go giddy. My friend bought a composter.
He’s been bragging about this for weeks. His wife initially made him buy a cheaper brand (after all, it makes dirt) but he returned it before even opening it and bought the classy model. It has it all – an indoors, top loading and odor free composter than makes dirt in 14 days instead of months using nature. You can throw materials into it anytime and it apparently just sits there tumbling until dirt pops out the bottom into a box.
I refuse to buy it.
It’s not that I’m not “green” because I am. Like most American’s I recycle whatever they will pick up curbside - plastics and paper, but not glass which they’ll pick out and throw on your front lawn… I kid you not. I also give money to several “green” oriented efforts when they remember to contact me (they never forget after the first time you give them money) and even once went to help with cleaning up a forest.
I won’t buy it for one simple reason – I can’t compost my poop. Now hear me out; when I go green with something, I like to go 100% or not at all. For me if it’s worth doing, do it all way. And when I compost, I want all my organic waste to be recycled into dirt. That means those end stalks from celery that no one eats, the green top of carrots, leaves from my non-existent yard, and my poop.
My buddy’s composter does accept cat and dog poop, but not human poop. The lack of a seat to deposit the poop is a clear indication they don’t want to recycle it. What’s the point of composting if you can’t compost everything?
Think about it – you could get back nine square feet of space in your house if you didn't have to have a comode, not to mention the savings in water, if only they could design a composter that recycles everything. Without that feature, it’s just yet another gadget taking up space…
He’s been bragging about this for weeks. His wife initially made him buy a cheaper brand (after all, it makes dirt) but he returned it before even opening it and bought the classy model. It has it all – an indoors, top loading and odor free composter than makes dirt in 14 days instead of months using nature. You can throw materials into it anytime and it apparently just sits there tumbling until dirt pops out the bottom into a box.
I refuse to buy it.
It’s not that I’m not “green” because I am. Like most American’s I recycle whatever they will pick up curbside - plastics and paper, but not glass which they’ll pick out and throw on your front lawn… I kid you not. I also give money to several “green” oriented efforts when they remember to contact me (they never forget after the first time you give them money) and even once went to help with cleaning up a forest.
I won’t buy it for one simple reason – I can’t compost my poop. Now hear me out; when I go green with something, I like to go 100% or not at all. For me if it’s worth doing, do it all way. And when I compost, I want all my organic waste to be recycled into dirt. That means those end stalks from celery that no one eats, the green top of carrots, leaves from my non-existent yard, and my poop.
My buddy’s composter does accept cat and dog poop, but not human poop. The lack of a seat to deposit the poop is a clear indication they don’t want to recycle it. What’s the point of composting if you can’t compost everything?
Think about it – you could get back nine square feet of space in your house if you didn't have to have a comode, not to mention the savings in water, if only they could design a composter that recycles everything. Without that feature, it’s just yet another gadget taking up space…
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Kate is Premium
A good friend of mine has 1 ½ year old baby girl, Kate, which acts like a typical person her age. This same friend also has a problem with cats… as in he has too many of them. To be fair, I’m not sure if the cat-problem is really his issue, his wife’s, or (most likely) a combination of the two but that’s immaterial.
Anyway I’m talking with him on the phone a couple months back and all the sudden I hear him yelling Kate’s name and saying he has to go. A while later I get the photo below from him:
Now I’m no expert on kids but there are several things wrong with this picture. First is that the cat doesn’t seem to mind that macaroni and cheese is in its fur. Granted there are only ten or so noodles trapped, probably just enough for a meal for later.
More importantly I am horrified that, after careful study, this is a generic mac and cheese, not the premium noodles with real cheese. The noodles in this photo are obviously from the “standard” package… notice the thinness of the noodles and how they are just barely covered with the “cheese” mix.
If my friend loved his daughter, or had any gumption to be a good parent and provider, those noodles would be up to half inch diameter, and the cheese sauce would be generously and thickly applied to each individual noodle. The cheese on the pictured noodles appears to have come from a powdered source mixed with water. I bet they eat better in prison.
So to my parent audience, please don’t make this same mistake. Think of the kids after all…
UPDATE: I've been informed that the noodles are organic, home-cooked and were slathered in real cheese before the cat licked the cheese off.
Anyway I’m talking with him on the phone a couple months back and all the sudden I hear him yelling Kate’s name and saying he has to go. A while later I get the photo below from him:
Now I’m no expert on kids but there are several things wrong with this picture. First is that the cat doesn’t seem to mind that macaroni and cheese is in its fur. Granted there are only ten or so noodles trapped, probably just enough for a meal for later.
More importantly I am horrified that, after careful study, this is a generic mac and cheese, not the premium noodles with real cheese. The noodles in this photo are obviously from the “standard” package… notice the thinness of the noodles and how they are just barely covered with the “cheese” mix.
If my friend loved his daughter, or had any gumption to be a good parent and provider, those noodles would be up to half inch diameter, and the cheese sauce would be generously and thickly applied to each individual noodle. The cheese on the pictured noodles appears to have come from a powdered source mixed with water. I bet they eat better in prison.
So to my parent audience, please don’t make this same mistake. Think of the kids after all…
UPDATE: I've been informed that the noodles are organic, home-cooked and were slathered in real cheese before the cat licked the cheese off.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Green Mountain Energy finally goes green
My energy company promises I'll get 100% of my energy as renewable energy which makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. I recently learned that allegedly a not insignificant percentage of the renewable energy source is from landfill gases which produces more waste than other "non-renewable" sources, but that's for another day.
For those who don’t know me – like anyone I don’t know is reading this – I live in a garage apartment behind a house divided into four apartments and logically it makes sense I’d be in unit 5. However when they built the garage apparently the electricity company decided that I lived in unit B with the garages I live over being unit C.
When I signed up with Green Mountain, they kept sending my bill to unit B instead of 5. I didn’t think much of it, and apparently either did the person living in unit 2, where the post office sent the bill. At least I didn’t think much about it until they switched off my power. Granted it's my bad to not start asking around ahead of time, so I can't offer any excuses.
I call my old electricity company and they said to contact Green Mountain Energy. I call them and they ask my account number which I obviously don't have. We finally get to my address and they said they sent me a couple bills, put a notice on my door, etcetera. Sure enough unit 2 got my cut-off notice, but Green Mountain did manage to turn off the power to the correct unit - mine.
To make a long story a blogs length, I remember just wanting power and paid whatever they asked and they turned it on the next day. I asked them to send the bill to my email account, but they couldn't. They can only send me a bill via postal mail.
The energy company that not only produces clean energy but has the word green in it’s name can’t send electronic bills, but only on paper. My bank, gas company, phone, cable, internet provider all offer to email me my bills if not overtly trying to get me to sign up for paperless bills. None of them has the word green in them yet can stop paper bills. None has the word Energy either but that's not what this blog is about this week.
Last week Green Mountain finally made it into the green age offers a paperless-bill option! Of course I immediately signed up. The only way I knew about it was that I logged into my account since to pay my bill when, as usual, I didn’t get a bill from them…
For those who don’t know me – like anyone I don’t know is reading this – I live in a garage apartment behind a house divided into four apartments and logically it makes sense I’d be in unit 5. However when they built the garage apparently the electricity company decided that I lived in unit B with the garages I live over being unit C.
When I signed up with Green Mountain, they kept sending my bill to unit B instead of 5. I didn’t think much of it, and apparently either did the person living in unit 2, where the post office sent the bill. At least I didn’t think much about it until they switched off my power. Granted it's my bad to not start asking around ahead of time, so I can't offer any excuses.
I call my old electricity company and they said to contact Green Mountain Energy. I call them and they ask my account number which I obviously don't have. We finally get to my address and they said they sent me a couple bills, put a notice on my door, etcetera. Sure enough unit 2 got my cut-off notice, but Green Mountain did manage to turn off the power to the correct unit - mine.
To make a long story a blogs length, I remember just wanting power and paid whatever they asked and they turned it on the next day. I asked them to send the bill to my email account, but they couldn't. They can only send me a bill via postal mail.
The energy company that not only produces clean energy but has the word green in it’s name can’t send electronic bills, but only on paper. My bank, gas company, phone, cable, internet provider all offer to email me my bills if not overtly trying to get me to sign up for paperless bills. None of them has the word green in them yet can stop paper bills. None has the word Energy either but that's not what this blog is about this week.
Last week Green Mountain finally made it into the green age offers a paperless-bill option! Of course I immediately signed up. The only way I knew about it was that I logged into my account since to pay my bill when, as usual, I didn’t get a bill from them…
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Who is that masked man?
Many of you, my readers, have asked me to describe myself. I can not do this since it would come across as egotistical. Fortunately there are (many) others of you who have written books on me. From this collection I offer to you, my favorite reader, the Compendia De Cary:
- He performed the rain dance backwards… and the sun came out.
- Even when he’s sleeping people say he’s breathtaking
- He once played blackjack and lost… just to see what it was like.
- Microsoft really did ask him to help design Windows 7
- He went once to a psychic… to warn her.
- He raced and beat a Porsche… on foot
- He avoids going to Oklahoma just so there’s one place he’s never been
- Pigs run in fear that clean will rub off him onto them
- He once told a bad joke… just to see what feeling uncomfortable felt like
- He won a wrestling match with a bear… using only his teeth
- When he says jump, no one asks how high and just start jumping
- Police often question him just to hear him speak
- If her were to mail a letter without postage, it would still get there
- He crashed his hard drive… to see what the “blue screen of death” was all about
- His personality is so magnetic that he is unable to carry credit cards.
- He never says anything taste like chicken… Not even chicken.
- He speaks fluent French, in Russian
- His charm is so contagious, vaccines we’re created for it.
- When he was abducted by aliens they asked him to probe them
- He lives vicariously through himself
- He's a lover, not a fighter... but he's also a fighter so don't get any ideas
- People hang onto his every word, even the prepositions
Monday, May 17, 2010
Twit This
The other day at work I wanted to see how many of you had commented recently on my blog (zero it turns out) but I had forgotten my blog web address. I did what any person on the planet would do (except in China where it’s blocked) and googled Narcissistic Musings. Much to my horror I found that others have thought of the same brilliant phrase.
Take for example the blog Musings of a Narcissist (hosted by Google), where the author states “I'm poor, fat, and single and it's really starting to piss me off”. It hasn’t been updated since July 1st, 2008. Apparently she either got thin, rich, married, or gave up being pissed - good for her.
Or the even more cleverly named Narcissistic Somniloquist (one who talks about themselves while they sleep). Now why couldn’t I come up with a fantastic phrase like that? Could be due to having to look up what Somniloquist meant. The author doesn’t update often and seems to have too many entries on the happenings in the oil industry… don't ask me how this ties into the blog title.
Oddly, there were tons of entires at Google that purportedly examined the narcissistic tendencies of those who have Twitter accounts. This reminded me that I have an account too, but couldn't tell you what my account details are since the day I signed up. Even having not logged in for over two years I get an email every once in a while letting me know I have yet another follower. It’s always a female who probably wants me to "friend" or "twit" her, or whatever it's called, so she can try to sell me something but still I’m flattered I have about 50 followers I don't know and have certainly have never tweeted.
I went through six pages at Google and couldn't find a single reference to my blog. This blog is hosted by Google. I'm thinking I might need to change the background color or even the font of the blog.
Take for example the blog Musings of a Narcissist (hosted by Google), where the author states “I'm poor, fat, and single and it's really starting to piss me off”. It hasn’t been updated since July 1st, 2008. Apparently she either got thin, rich, married, or gave up being pissed - good for her.
Or the even more cleverly named Narcissistic Somniloquist (one who talks about themselves while they sleep). Now why couldn’t I come up with a fantastic phrase like that? Could be due to having to look up what Somniloquist meant. The author doesn’t update often and seems to have too many entries on the happenings in the oil industry… don't ask me how this ties into the blog title.
Oddly, there were tons of entires at Google that purportedly examined the narcissistic tendencies of those who have Twitter accounts. This reminded me that I have an account too, but couldn't tell you what my account details are since the day I signed up. Even having not logged in for over two years I get an email every once in a while letting me know I have yet another follower. It’s always a female who probably wants me to "friend" or "twit" her, or whatever it's called, so she can try to sell me something but still I’m flattered I have about 50 followers I don't know and have certainly have never tweeted.
I went through six pages at Google and couldn't find a single reference to my blog. This blog is hosted by Google. I'm thinking I might need to change the background color or even the font of the blog.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
My New Plaid Pants
As everyone who reads this blog is already aware, I’ve gotten back into painting. I stuck my toe back into it tepidly, using small 3x5 inch canvases and continuing with acrylics. Acrylics are an excellent choice for new painters for several reasons: they are relatively inexpensive, dry fast, provide a “depth” unlike water colors, and are water soluble. I’ve never worked with any other type of paint except acrylics, but wanted to move to oil paints for a number of reasons, but I have to admit the main reason is that they are considered the “artist” paints – you aren’t considered a painter until you paint in oil.
I assume this is because oil paint itself stinks, the mixers stink even more, and the cleaning solutions stink the most. It’s the smell that makes a true artist… either that or that you inevitably end up with paint on your hands and cloths that no amount of turpentine will remove. I don’t have a dedicated artist’s studio, unless you count my dining room table as a studio, so painting in oils would really allow the olfactory sensors to kick into high gear throughout my house.
Still, the allure of being a real artist is like a siren call that can’t be resisted. I trudged off to the local art supply store a few months ago with a list of paints to purchase. After returning home with a shocking $150 receipt I discovered the following: oil paints aren’t cheap, they require a bunch of additional supplies (linseed oil, turpentine, etc) that acrylics don’t require, and it’s true they do smell to high heaven. Smell as in close the windows, paint for a half hour and you’ll be as high as you used to get in high school. I now understand why artists are crazy… it’s not from the emotional rollercoaster the artwork takes you down, but the fumes. Oils and I didn’t make it for even a small finished painting; however I did feel awfully silly the rest of that day.
Since I wanted to be buried with both my ears attached, unlike Van Gogh, I needed an alternative. After scouring the internet for what seemed like hours on end (but actually took only a couple minutes – most of the time filled by waiting for my PC to boot up) I discovered a new type of oil paint – water soluble. New is relative but apt; water soluble oil paints have only existed for mere decades unlike when the great masters transitioned from egg tempura to oil around 1500.
Off to the art store again, and another $150 for new paints. Best $150 I’ve spent all year, not counting the plaid pants I bought at Overstock of course. Those are some sweet pants, I have to say… I might even make a painting of them.
I assume this is because oil paint itself stinks, the mixers stink even more, and the cleaning solutions stink the most. It’s the smell that makes a true artist… either that or that you inevitably end up with paint on your hands and cloths that no amount of turpentine will remove. I don’t have a dedicated artist’s studio, unless you count my dining room table as a studio, so painting in oils would really allow the olfactory sensors to kick into high gear throughout my house.
Still, the allure of being a real artist is like a siren call that can’t be resisted. I trudged off to the local art supply store a few months ago with a list of paints to purchase. After returning home with a shocking $150 receipt I discovered the following: oil paints aren’t cheap, they require a bunch of additional supplies (linseed oil, turpentine, etc) that acrylics don’t require, and it’s true they do smell to high heaven. Smell as in close the windows, paint for a half hour and you’ll be as high as you used to get in high school. I now understand why artists are crazy… it’s not from the emotional rollercoaster the artwork takes you down, but the fumes. Oils and I didn’t make it for even a small finished painting; however I did feel awfully silly the rest of that day.
Since I wanted to be buried with both my ears attached, unlike Van Gogh, I needed an alternative. After scouring the internet for what seemed like hours on end (but actually took only a couple minutes – most of the time filled by waiting for my PC to boot up) I discovered a new type of oil paint – water soluble. New is relative but apt; water soluble oil paints have only existed for mere decades unlike when the great masters transitioned from egg tempura to oil around 1500.
Off to the art store again, and another $150 for new paints. Best $150 I’ve spent all year, not counting the plaid pants I bought at Overstock of course. Those are some sweet pants, I have to say… I might even make a painting of them.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Working out is hard work!
Given the title of the post, I imagine you're thinking that getting healthy is hard due to... well, working out. Not exactly...
My new employer has an incredible workout facility which has state-of-the-art equipment including video StairMasters and those walk-a-thons that allow you to stroll in place rather down a trail in the park or around a pond. It also has free-weights and those weight machines that target that one part of the body you didn't know needed to be exercised.
It's also free, usually empty, and has the several on-sight trainers that will teach you why you need to use that machine to exercise that one muscle you didn't know existed. I'm one who thinks working out with co-workers is just a little too odd, but I've gone down at various times of the day, including morning, lunch and late afternoon and it's dead empty except for the trainers who seem marginally happy to see me when they they look up from browsing the Internet and realize I'm just there to check out the gym.
Today I decided to go for the deep dive... eating healthy AND working out. It starts off well by going down to the company cafeteria and getting a healthy oatmeal breakfast and OJ followed by a lunch of salad with a side of fruit. Both were quite filling, definitely tasty and (slightly) subsidized by the company - thanks boss! I go down to the gym around 2:00 (I ate quickly to make up for the gym time... really... no really... no, really I'm serious) to continue on my journey of healthiness.
Apparently there are forms to fill out to get healthy... three of them to be exact. One is a general three pager on my physical condition (does future state count?), my goals (see future state), my eating habits (I'm starting with today), any medications I'm on (none), and which body-building competitions I'm competed in for the last five years (no comment).
The second form was approval from my doctor to participate in the company-required evaluation by the trainers... I'm guessing it's their way of making sure they can't be sued if I keel over and die from walking on a treadmill for five minutes while being evaluated. On the plus side, I think this opens up a potential lawsuit for the doctor who signed it.
Finally the last form is approval from my supervisor to use the facility. I am a little perplexed by this one - why would my boss need to approve me getting healthy? I'm also not sure who signed the CEOs form, although he might still be getting his doctors approval to be tested by the trainers for all I know.
In any event I now understand why the gym is empty...
My new employer has an incredible workout facility which has state-of-the-art equipment including video StairMasters and those walk-a-thons that allow you to stroll in place rather down a trail in the park or around a pond. It also has free-weights and those weight machines that target that one part of the body you didn't know needed to be exercised.
It's also free, usually empty, and has the several on-sight trainers that will teach you why you need to use that machine to exercise that one muscle you didn't know existed. I'm one who thinks working out with co-workers is just a little too odd, but I've gone down at various times of the day, including morning, lunch and late afternoon and it's dead empty except for the trainers who seem marginally happy to see me when they they look up from browsing the Internet and realize I'm just there to check out the gym.
Today I decided to go for the deep dive... eating healthy AND working out. It starts off well by going down to the company cafeteria and getting a healthy oatmeal breakfast and OJ followed by a lunch of salad with a side of fruit. Both were quite filling, definitely tasty and (slightly) subsidized by the company - thanks boss! I go down to the gym around 2:00 (I ate quickly to make up for the gym time... really... no really... no, really I'm serious) to continue on my journey of healthiness.
Apparently there are forms to fill out to get healthy... three of them to be exact. One is a general three pager on my physical condition (does future state count?), my goals (see future state), my eating habits (I'm starting with today), any medications I'm on (none), and which body-building competitions I'm competed in for the last five years (no comment).
The second form was approval from my doctor to participate in the company-required evaluation by the trainers... I'm guessing it's their way of making sure they can't be sued if I keel over and die from walking on a treadmill for five minutes while being evaluated. On the plus side, I think this opens up a potential lawsuit for the doctor who signed it.
Finally the last form is approval from my supervisor to use the facility. I am a little perplexed by this one - why would my boss need to approve me getting healthy? I'm also not sure who signed the CEOs form, although he might still be getting his doctors approval to be tested by the trainers for all I know.
In any event I now understand why the gym is empty...
Saturday, March 27, 2010
What You Really Mean
As most / all of you know I'm starting a new job on Monday. The marketing genius's at NiMA sent me clever packet of notices I can display on my desk to let my co-workers know my status. Now granted, I have no issues letting them know where I'm at, but it's rare that any of these statuses would convey what I actually want to say.
So for my new co-workers, when you see the status on the left, know I'm actually thinking what is on the right.
So for my new co-workers, when you see the status on the left, know I'm actually thinking what is on the right.
And finally my personal favorite...
Note: no bunnies were hurt during the production of the photographs except Oscar, the bunny pictured in the photos above. Sorry about that Oscar...
Thursday, March 25, 2010
The Greatest Day Ever
Today is my birthday, or so my mother tells me. I don't have reason to not believe her, but I also don't have any actual proof or recollection of the actual event. Don't get me wrong... there's nothing wrong with March 25th. I share something with many of the great people in history including Howard Cosell, Julius Ceaser (the famous cricketer from the 1850s, not the Roman emperor or inventor of the best salad ever), and of course who could forget that Henry II. Ah yes - Henry II, the first king to call himself King of England as opposed to King of the English. Sure he was born in France, but that's a detail which I'm sure any good person who calls themselves British ignores.
There have been calls... well emails... okay okay, a comment in one of my posts below from my sister who apparently can't spell, to write a post for today. I can't be bothered though, as I'm spending today thinking about myself, reflecting on my accomplishments and generally basking in the light of "myselfness" (copyright me, 2010). Oh, and enjoying the Calphalon sauce pan that very same sister sent me as a present.
And I might add that today, in celebration of myself, I decided to reward myself by following my own blog. Grats me!
Today, after all, is the greatest day ever.
There have been calls... well emails... okay okay, a comment in one of my posts below from my sister who apparently can't spell, to write a post for today. I can't be bothered though, as I'm spending today thinking about myself, reflecting on my accomplishments and generally basking in the light of "myselfness" (copyright me, 2010). Oh, and enjoying the Calphalon sauce pan that very same sister sent me as a present.
And I might add that today, in celebration of myself, I decided to reward myself by following my own blog. Grats me!
Today, after all, is the greatest day ever.
Monday, March 22, 2010
New Beginnings
My sister Jill sent me an email letting me know I broke my promise of daily blog posts. I don't recall even hinting at that, but we both know I have the world’s worst memory. She could tell me I promised to babysit the twins for the next year while she and her husband travelled the world and I'd have choice but to accept that I probably did say that and go to the grocery store to stock up on Lucky Charms and peanut butter for the long haul.
I have a big break-out post, the post that will be renown throughout the interwebs as the blog post for which all other posts will be judged. Unfortunately I haven't started it yet. To bridge the gap and at least make it a weekly blog I present you with big news about me - as the blog Narcissistic Musings should.
As all three or four of you who read my blog (I have to artificially pump up the numbers for the advertisers) already know, I'm switching jobs starting next Monday. I'll be working at BP, a large energy company (4th largest in the world to be precise) in their trading division. They are starting an IT team in the Financial Products trading group which trades derivatives to hedge against existing trades made by other trading groups.
As many of you may recall, derivatives are what made the world go boom last year, however the types of trades this group does are not the "boom" type. A derivative, in simple terms, is the selling or buying the risk of the underlying instrument for a fixed payment. The underlying instrument can be anything from a bond to a mortgage to interest rates. I’m sure one or two of my friends or family would correct me on some technicality, but I’m also sure they’re too smart to waste their time reading this (or at least bothering to tell me). And it’s too bad my good friend Marc does not read this since he asks me every three months what a derivative is; then again, I might just reply back in the email with a link to this blog…
As an easy example, when you buy a house the bank loans you a lot of money (unless it’s a mobile home, but will forget that for the moment). If you refuse to pay them after the second month they get the house back, but as we all know the house might have damage to it or be worth less than you paid for it, and the bank will also incur costs trying to resell it – they will lose money in almost all circumstances.
To reduce that risk, or hedge against you not paying, they could create a derivative whereby they sell the “risk” of you not paying your mortgage to some fool (and the world has plenty of them – points at AIG, Iceland, and Freddie Mac) for $50 a month. In the event you stop paying and the bank forecloses, the buyer of the derivative has to pay the bank the difference between what the house is finally resold at and what was outstanding on the mortgage. In essence, the maximum amount of money the bank can lose is the $50 a month payment which was built into your interest rate anyway. The house never loses unless your Bank of America and loved holding those subprime mortgages.
Why would anyone buy the risk aka derivative from the bank? They are gambling that the chance you do not pay your mortgage is small and they will buy enough derivatives to cover those that do go into foreclosure that they will come out making money. In affect, they are betting that the same company that issued the mortgages somehow miscalcuated the risk of foreclosure and is paying more in fixed payments than they should. Yeah right!
Clear as mud right?
I have a big break-out post, the post that will be renown throughout the interwebs as the blog post for which all other posts will be judged. Unfortunately I haven't started it yet. To bridge the gap and at least make it a weekly blog I present you with big news about me - as the blog Narcissistic Musings should.
As all three or four of you who read my blog (I have to artificially pump up the numbers for the advertisers) already know, I'm switching jobs starting next Monday. I'll be working at BP, a large energy company (4th largest in the world to be precise) in their trading division. They are starting an IT team in the Financial Products trading group which trades derivatives to hedge against existing trades made by other trading groups.
As many of you may recall, derivatives are what made the world go boom last year, however the types of trades this group does are not the "boom" type. A derivative, in simple terms, is the selling or buying the risk of the underlying instrument for a fixed payment. The underlying instrument can be anything from a bond to a mortgage to interest rates. I’m sure one or two of my friends or family would correct me on some technicality, but I’m also sure they’re too smart to waste their time reading this (or at least bothering to tell me). And it’s too bad my good friend Marc does not read this since he asks me every three months what a derivative is; then again, I might just reply back in the email with a link to this blog…
As an easy example, when you buy a house the bank loans you a lot of money (unless it’s a mobile home, but will forget that for the moment). If you refuse to pay them after the second month they get the house back, but as we all know the house might have damage to it or be worth less than you paid for it, and the bank will also incur costs trying to resell it – they will lose money in almost all circumstances.
To reduce that risk, or hedge against you not paying, they could create a derivative whereby they sell the “risk” of you not paying your mortgage to some fool (and the world has plenty of them – points at AIG, Iceland, and Freddie Mac) for $50 a month. In the event you stop paying and the bank forecloses, the buyer of the derivative has to pay the bank the difference between what the house is finally resold at and what was outstanding on the mortgage. In essence, the maximum amount of money the bank can lose is the $50 a month payment which was built into your interest rate anyway. The house never loses unless your Bank of America and loved holding those subprime mortgages.
Why would anyone buy the risk aka derivative from the bank? They are gambling that the chance you do not pay your mortgage is small and they will buy enough derivatives to cover those that do go into foreclosure that they will come out making money. In affect, they are betting that the same company that issued the mortgages somehow miscalcuated the risk of foreclosure and is paying more in fixed payments than they should. Yeah right!
Clear as mud right?
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
All About Me
I have to come clean - this is not the first time I have written a blog. About a year ago I had a fantastic idea: write a blog that was so narcissisticly over the top that it would be funny. I added pictures of myself with my family and friends, but would black out all the faces except mine. I referred to myself in the third person. I never strayed from anything but myself and how I felt about anything. I even added a poll where the list of answers all basically said "me". I thought it was absolutely hilarious and giggled while I wrote it.
I admit I was apprehensive since it was a little edgy. To ensure that it would indeed be received as I had planned, I showed it to a friend. The look of horror on their face was enough; the blog was shut down after only three posts. Turns out "edgy" was the wrong word to describe it.
That said I refuse to believe that the name of that blog, Narcissistic Musings, is anything short of a brilliant name for a blog. I'm so confident in that belief that I have kept it for this blog too. After all, lets me intellectually honest with ourselves (or me in this case)... blogs are intended to be about the beliefs, travels, trials, and travesties of ourselves. In the end who can't admit wondering if the short period we are here if it isn't all about me?
I admit I was apprehensive since it was a little edgy. To ensure that it would indeed be received as I had planned, I showed it to a friend. The look of horror on their face was enough; the blog was shut down after only three posts. Turns out "edgy" was the wrong word to describe it.
That said I refuse to believe that the name of that blog, Narcissistic Musings, is anything short of a brilliant name for a blog. I'm so confident in that belief that I have kept it for this blog too. After all, lets me intellectually honest with ourselves (or me in this case)... blogs are intended to be about the beliefs, travels, trials, and travesties of ourselves. In the end who can't admit wondering if the short period we are here if it isn't all about me?
Monday, March 8, 2010
Don't Get Cornered
Russell, my brother in law, writes the blog Corner Pieces about the random events in his life. Most of his posts are about his daughters (not coincidentally my nieces) which itself lends itself to humorous topics, however he has a real knack adding hilarious bits and pieces into each post. If you met him in real life you'd see that he is as funny in person as on the blog.
My goals for this blog are two fold: create an outlet for my creativity that, lets be honest here, very few will read and to give those readers a smile or two in each post. You might be asking what happens when you bottle up all that creativity. After many years - first grade in my case - of doing just that I can convincingly say not much. However releasing it in many alternative ways (did I mention the bad paintings in the prior post) has allowed me to channel any ill emotions I might have to something constructive. Not that those emotions would go to anything destructive, but it releases them much more quickly.
Making others smile is much trickier. I'm a firm believer that you either have it or you don't when it comes to humor. Putting it to paper (or my screen in this case) is much harder since the reader doesn't get to hear my voice inflections or see me grin to know when it's time laugh; it might end up being one of those polite smiles, but in my own mind's eye I know they are curling up laughing on the inside.
I hope and plan on keeping most of the posts here less serious and more light-hearted so that a bit of humor can seep into them. After all, I don't want to put myself into a corner where that smile can't be sought after.
My goals for this blog are two fold: create an outlet for my creativity that, lets be honest here, very few will read and to give those readers a smile or two in each post. You might be asking what happens when you bottle up all that creativity. After many years - first grade in my case - of doing just that I can convincingly say not much. However releasing it in many alternative ways (did I mention the bad paintings in the prior post) has allowed me to channel any ill emotions I might have to something constructive. Not that those emotions would go to anything destructive, but it releases them much more quickly.
Making others smile is much trickier. I'm a firm believer that you either have it or you don't when it comes to humor. Putting it to paper (or my screen in this case) is much harder since the reader doesn't get to hear my voice inflections or see me grin to know when it's time laugh; it might end up being one of those polite smiles, but in my own mind's eye I know they are curling up laughing on the inside.
I hope and plan on keeping most of the posts here less serious and more light-hearted so that a bit of humor can seep into them. After all, I don't want to put myself into a corner where that smile can't be sought after.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Phone Home
I had another post already written for today, but a friend called me last night almost in tears that her cat Frisky had been missing for several days.
Many years ago my sister gave me two kittens for Christmas, a brother and sister. I let my young niece help name them; she saw an M and a W on their foreheads so we settled on Molly and Walter. I had every intention of letting her have all the honors, but as I recall her first choice for M was Matilda and I decided I needed to step in to help with the naming process since no cat of mine was going to be named after a witch. Apologies to all the humans out there named Matilda - it's a perfectly nice name, but cats and witches have a long history that I needed to break.
Fast forward a few years and Molly somehow escaped the house. At that time I was living in a townhome that looked out onto a heavily forested land with a bayou running down the middle. For northerners out there, a bayou is essentially a slow-moving creek found mostly in the Gulf region. While it is a fantastic area to live in it's not conducive to indoor cats since the wildlife is not exactly cat-friendly.
I was devastated and tried all the usual tricks to find her; I called her name (because every cat owner knows how well cats respond to you calling their names), searched under the surrounding townhome decks, and even went as far as to set up a trap. I don't recall the exact details of the trap which involved a pet cage, cat food and a trip wire, but amazingly it worked on day four of five.
I was elated... Molly managed to scratch me as I took her into the house but that didn’t matter. Walter also wasn't very pleased to see her, probably due her smelling like the place he had always yearned to go to but never managed to get to. A few days went by and she was still hesitant of me and Walter still shunned her, but one can understand that; she had been through quite an ordeal. On day ten or so I got home from work and was flabbergasted to see Molly staring at me from the outside on the deck! I had no idea how she had managed to get outside again, but I rushed out and she was much more compliant about coming inside this time. But I had a problem.
I had three cats in the house. I was so blinded by wanting my Molly back that I had ignored the obvious. The cat I had trapped was not only bigger and had a bad replica of an M on her forehead, but had scratched me that day I had brought her in with her front claws. You see, I had declawed the front claws of both my cats since they could retract them fully.
That experience taught me many things - one being check for front claws. But it also taught me love can cause so much tunnel vision to the point of blindness that you overlook what’s right in front of you; and if you want something too badly you’ll ignore the warning signs that everyone else sees. Love isn't something to be shunned, just don't forget to keep looking left and right when crossing the street.
Oh, and Frisky if your out there reading this it’s time to phone home. Your mother misses you.
Many years ago my sister gave me two kittens for Christmas, a brother and sister. I let my young niece help name them; she saw an M and a W on their foreheads so we settled on Molly and Walter. I had every intention of letting her have all the honors, but as I recall her first choice for M was Matilda and I decided I needed to step in to help with the naming process since no cat of mine was going to be named after a witch. Apologies to all the humans out there named Matilda - it's a perfectly nice name, but cats and witches have a long history that I needed to break.
Fast forward a few years and Molly somehow escaped the house. At that time I was living in a townhome that looked out onto a heavily forested land with a bayou running down the middle. For northerners out there, a bayou is essentially a slow-moving creek found mostly in the Gulf region. While it is a fantastic area to live in it's not conducive to indoor cats since the wildlife is not exactly cat-friendly.
I was devastated and tried all the usual tricks to find her; I called her name (because every cat owner knows how well cats respond to you calling their names), searched under the surrounding townhome decks, and even went as far as to set up a trap. I don't recall the exact details of the trap which involved a pet cage, cat food and a trip wire, but amazingly it worked on day four of five.
I was elated... Molly managed to scratch me as I took her into the house but that didn’t matter. Walter also wasn't very pleased to see her, probably due her smelling like the place he had always yearned to go to but never managed to get to. A few days went by and she was still hesitant of me and Walter still shunned her, but one can understand that; she had been through quite an ordeal. On day ten or so I got home from work and was flabbergasted to see Molly staring at me from the outside on the deck! I had no idea how she had managed to get outside again, but I rushed out and she was much more compliant about coming inside this time. But I had a problem.
I had three cats in the house. I was so blinded by wanting my Molly back that I had ignored the obvious. The cat I had trapped was not only bigger and had a bad replica of an M on her forehead, but had scratched me that day I had brought her in with her front claws. You see, I had declawed the front claws of both my cats since they could retract them fully.
That experience taught me many things - one being check for front claws. But it also taught me love can cause so much tunnel vision to the point of blindness that you overlook what’s right in front of you; and if you want something too badly you’ll ignore the warning signs that everyone else sees. Love isn't something to be shunned, just don't forget to keep looking left and right when crossing the street.
Oh, and Frisky if your out there reading this it’s time to phone home. Your mother misses you.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
A Short Trip to the Moon
When I was in first grade I wrote my first short novel "A Trip to the Moon". It was a riveting tale of a boy travelling to the moon and his experiences there among the giant plants that populated it. My mom still has a copy of it somewhere; it's either on the premise that you don't throw away any work from Picasso or that it's just something moms do. Unfortunately none of the major publishing houses picked it up and my career as writer was short lived. It might have helped if I had sent it to those publishing houses and maybe fleshed it out beyond the two pages, double spaced, handwritten copy.
I didn't give up writing though; today I write project plans, financial forecasts and business requirements that are pieces of art in the own right. Unfortunately my audience, the "business", doesn't seem to appreciate these classics of mine and I almost get the impression they think of them as... project plans, financial forecasts and business requirements.
One of the things I love about writing is that it allows you formulate sentences over the course of a hour but only takes five seconds to say out loud. It is incredible how expressive you can get when you float the same group of words in your mind until it feels just right. When talking I tend to not give the slightest consideration of how the words come out. After that crushing blow by the publishers on my first novel and giving up writing as an art form, I talk much more than I write which can get a guy into trouble.
Recent events, however, have unleashed the creative and introspective side in me and led to some pretty bad paintings along with the occasional keeper. A friend of mine, Summer from NiMA, an integrated marketed boutique (I have no idea what that means but it sounds impressive; my exposure to marketing is slightly less than nil other than how to throw out a blatant plug), started her own blog. After my sending of a congratulatory email about her blog she responded that I should start my own.
So today I am returning to the moon. It doesn't have the giant plants of my childhood fantasy, but Summer was right that the view is beautiful.
I didn't give up writing though; today I write project plans, financial forecasts and business requirements that are pieces of art in the own right. Unfortunately my audience, the "business", doesn't seem to appreciate these classics of mine and I almost get the impression they think of them as... project plans, financial forecasts and business requirements.
One of the things I love about writing is that it allows you formulate sentences over the course of a hour but only takes five seconds to say out loud. It is incredible how expressive you can get when you float the same group of words in your mind until it feels just right. When talking I tend to not give the slightest consideration of how the words come out. After that crushing blow by the publishers on my first novel and giving up writing as an art form, I talk much more than I write which can get a guy into trouble.
Recent events, however, have unleashed the creative and introspective side in me and led to some pretty bad paintings along with the occasional keeper. A friend of mine, Summer from NiMA, an integrated marketed boutique (I have no idea what that means but it sounds impressive; my exposure to marketing is slightly less than nil other than how to throw out a blatant plug), started her own blog. After my sending of a congratulatory email about her blog she responded that I should start my own.
So today I am returning to the moon. It doesn't have the giant plants of my childhood fantasy, but Summer was right that the view is beautiful.
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