Quick stats for ya

I'll leave it to Kathryn to give you the exciting updates on our near-finished marathon bathroom remodel.

I, on the other hand, will provide you with some exceptionally illuminating statistics:

17 - the number of months we've been in our work-in-progress house.
17 - the number of months it's taken me to figure out that caulking is my absolute least favorite thing ever when it comes to working on a house.
17 - the number of times last night, while caulking, that I considered packing our bags and moving us to a state park or Alaska or something so we could just live in a tent.
17 - the number of minutes it took me to scrub and scrape the dried caulk off my fingers after getting less than half the remaining caulking done in the bathroom.

Last, but not least:
17 - seventeen more than the number of people who are likely to want to return to my blog anytime soon after reading this post.

LL Cute Joe

If you think the title is awkward enough (as in, some kind of self-proclaimed title), then get ready for the hot scoop of awkward that I'm about to dish up.

If you didn't quite get the cultural reference, I'm referring to this guy, whose alias, if you weren't already knowledgabizzle, stands for 'Ladies Love Cool James'.

If only I could (or was at least attempting to) make such a claim. No, unfortunately, after the events that just transpired about 20 minutes ago, here's the sad state of things: Ladyboys Love Cute Joe. More on that first part of the title a little later...

Tonight's occasion was made possible by a couple of gender-confused individuals who were leaving the video store at the same time that I was returning a DVD. The transcript is as follows:

Ladyboys: (waving and batting some fake eyelashes - well, at least they were enhanced in some form or fashion) "Hey Sexy..."
Me: (muttering indistinctly and avoiding eye contact) "Hi"
Ladyboys: (walking towards their car, which was also in my general direction) "Merry Christmas..."
Me: (maintaining the initial sense of distance) "Thanks"
Ladyboys: (now at their car) [Waving and batting eyelashes again]
Me: (in my car again about to drive off) [Noticing the waving out of the corner of my eye, I drive away with a the kind of quick wave and sideways glance usually reserved for newspaper salesmen.]

I'd love to say this kind of thing hasn't ever happened before, but it has. Kathryn and I were in Thailand on a mission trip the summer before we got married. We decided to get photos done, because Thai people get wedding pictures done before they get married as opposed to after, and we could get a great deal on some really nice pictures. So we drove an hour and a half across Bangkok to the shopping mall where the photo place was. The place was run by gay Thai guys, who Thai people call "ladyboys" (hence the alias and title for this post). We started getting ready. They spent over an hour on Kathryn's makeup (later, her mom didn't even recognize her in the pictures), and at least twenty minutes on my hair. At some point while they were either fixing my hair or taking the pictures, one of our Thai friends comes and tells us there are some more ladyboys outside the place, watching me through the glass (so maybe it was while we were taking pictures), talking about how cute I was. Brilliant. Of course, Kathryn and our Thai friend enjoy a plentiful handful of snickers at my situation.

Does this make me feel awkward? Yeah, a little bit, but nothing near the level of awkward experienced by a friend of mine when a Brazilian woman offered to have his baby for him (she had to say it through a translator) after a concert in Brazil (he was on tour with a musical group). Great story - maybe I can get him to blog about it.

Looking on the bright side, at least the ladyboys aren't offering to have my baby. Maybe I should ask next time.

Fourth time's the charm: the joys of being an alumnus

WARNING: the post you are about to read contains thinly-veiled bitterness, justifiable cynicism (probably) and pervasive sarcasm.  People with weak stomachs or those preferring lighter-mood-fare are strongly cautioned.  Not recommended for the school-spirited or exceedingly loyal.  Read at your own risk.

Last night a student worker of the Alumni Association at my alma mater called and asked me for money.  I respectfully declined.  Four times.  And yes, I annunciated.

This seems to follow the stubborn-persistence strategy of Abraham pleading for Sodom.  (There are some limitations to the connection, but you get the idea.)  In fact, I don't know that I've ever had to tell someone 'no' so many times who wanted my money.  It was a little exhilarating, really, being all firm and stingy and stuff.

Oh, and they're clever, too.  The students are great conversationalists who can think on their feet.  They're formulaic, but not predictable.  Still, the conversations all tend to loosely move through the following stages:

1) Address Confirmation.  This happens first as the initial 'occasion' for the call, and though it serves a useful purpose for alumni and association alike, is ultimately not the 'real reason' for the call.  You know what's coming.  

2) Caller/Callee Identification.  The caller gets me to talk about what I'm doing now while finding points of connection, in an I'm-your-pal-or-if-we-lived-in-the-same-place-I-could-be fashion.  It just so happened that this particular person last night had a connection to Texas A&M and had even been there recently with her family.  Smooth. 

3) Nostalgic Recollection.  "You remember the good ol' days at the Caf' and the Yo'?  How about those overseas trips, that crazy fun you had?  Ahhhh...."  The caller, now your best friend, tightens those concentric circles, strengthening the lulling effect, painting a broad-stroked picture with both of you standing arm-in-arm with your classmates at your favorite campus spot, preying on those powerful "those were the days" emotions as he/she moves in for the kill...

4) Heartfelt Supplication.  All those fond memories rekindled, the caller pounces.  They start high, and ask if you could help make possible for someone else the blessings you've enjoyed, though not in so many words.  After all, our school motto was, "Freely you have received, freely give."  (Not quite sure how this plays into Pepperdine graduates having the highest rate of indebtedness among all American schools with doctoral programs - which they did a few years ago, at least - but I'm sure it all works out, somehow.)  They work their way down the list of commitments you could make, scripted all the way down (they must know they've got some hard cases out there), until they utter their final plea that the agencies that rank the school look at alumni giving rates to determine standings, to which, though it nearly broke my heart, I was courageous enough to not cave.

Do I sound a little cynical?  I'm just tired of being played.  Maybe it's because of things like the guy who acted like everyone's friend our senior year so he could get the entire senior class to give money in the senior gift.  Maybe it's the fact that one of the older men I knew at the church while I was there (he also worked for the university) died earlier this year, and the first time I ever heard about it was when the Alumni Association sent out an email announcing an endowed fund in his name, painting a portrait of his life as if the only valuable thing about it was his allegiance and contribution to the university.  Maybe it's that I'm still paying for a degree that has cost me way more than it's gained me.  Maybe all of the above.

Ah, the joys of being an alumnus.  What were they again?

A Week In The Life Of Joe

I’ve determined that weekends are the best times for revealing how desperately inept one is at living life. Here’s the way things typically tend to shake out for me on weekends. Actually, to get a better idea, it’s best to start with Mondays – the days on which, usually, my weekend expectations begin to form. Mondays usually begin with an unpleasant discovery: that in the intervening time between Sunday night bed-time and Monday morning wake-time, a miracle has, in fact, failed to occur yet again, and I will, in fact, have to deal with each week day in due course and miss out on skipping right ahead to Friday night. Such is life (imagine that in a French accent). These types of dark epiphanies are much less common throughout the week, but have been known to occur as late as about Wednesday morning.

Skip ahead to Thursday. I actually like Thursdays quite a bit. They consist largely of the promise of freedom – a certain kind of over-the-hump-ness mixed with a feeling that scores of hours are coming in which I can breathe and run free, sleep in (although I usually prefer to be up sometime before 9 on weekends), and regain the sanity that evaporates off me like steam during the week. Thursdays are great because the next day is Friday, and then you can wear jeans to work! (Never mind the fact that many of my coworkers and I often wear jeans the other days of the week. Never mind that now.)

Friday arrives. Fridays are good, partly because of jeans, but most importantly because of the unshakeable optimism that accompanies knowing that any crap you have to deal with today you most assuredly won’t have to deal with tomorrow (that is, unless you are one of those “task-oriented” employees instead of a “time-oriented” employee, like me…). Ah yes, Fridays. And then it happens. Five o’clock. Everybody saying, “have a good weekend.” Weekend? Hm. I always arrive at this point underprepared. Suddenly I have 63 hours of freedom that I have absolutely no idea what to do with. How can that be, you ask? Let me explain.

In honesty, I have plenty of ideas what I’d like to do on a weekend. They’re the types of things that tend to break the budget, or the inseam, or come across as violations of spousal peace treaties. That is to say, the consumer in me knows exactly what to do with weekends and a debit card. That’s the problem – that dude is a total asshole. And if asshole is left unchecked all weekend, then Monday rolls around and taunts me, in all its sick irony, “time to do it all over again.” Usually, though, those voices in my head start their harassment by Sunday night. It seems they’ve found that it’s best to ease people into despondency, rather than springing it on them all at once.

“Joe,” you say, “it sounds like you’ve been noticing this thing going on for a while.” “Yes,” I answer, “I have.” “Joe,” you continue, “have you thought about planning out your weekends in advance?” “Why yes,” I respond, “I have. In fact, that’s exactly what I did this weekend. I took some time during the day Friday to plan out, wisely I might add, both the sorts of things I would need and want to do this weekend. Additionally, I found some time for my wife and I to communicate about these things, so we could both talk about what we hoped to do this weekend.” “Joe,” you exclaim, “that’s great! How did it go?” “Well,” I sigh, “you’ll be reading about it on my blog. I might label it ‘downbeat something-or-other’.” “Oh.” “Oh.”

Yes, so that brings me to this weekend. Was it horrible? Not entirely – because, for all my shortcomings, I did succeed in one thing: making both my wife and I painfully depressed by late yesterday evening. Score. On my own goal. Kathryn and I have both been wanting to pursue creative projects more in our free time, rather than just watching TV or doing something totally passive like that. (Granted, she can typically be working on some kind of craft project while watching TV, but I certainly can’t. I don’t multitask – TV and activity are like oil and water for me.) So, she comes to me in the afternoon and asks, “Want to work on a video together?” After a little inertia on my part, I decide that I would like to try to brainstorm a project we can do together. So we both brainstorm independently (she’s showering at this point) – collaborative brainstorming sessions have previously tanked in prior instances of this exact situation. Then, a little while later, we both come together to share the ideas we’re both excited about. Let’s just say, our ideas meshed about as well as cold water and wood fire. Creative momentum: successfully managed, i.e., squelched.

I’ll save you the rest of the details (other than clarification that this really wasn’t a fight by any stretch of the imagination – we just had vastly different visions and couldn’t get on the same page, or in this case, even be reading the same book), because I’m short on time and they’re depressing anyways. Suffice it to say we did manage to find a little enjoyment watching Steve Carell host Saturday Night Live. Oh well. Whatever.

Lord, I feel I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Now, I don’t fault you for any of this. You’re not, historically speaking, the one who botches things up so much as the one who steps in and repairs the damage, making things right and good again. But (and, you know, big one or whatnot…), I need some help here, and not just a little. Life just seems more complex and complicated than I can handle. Maybe I’m the one making it difficult, but I need to be taught before I can be expected to perform. You’ve given me an airplane, but I’ve only ever learned to drive a car. You know I want to fly, because a guy can barely walk down here without being assaulted by a thousand damn billboards. You know I’m tired of buying their crap. Teach me to fly. Forgive me for all I’ve spent poorly. Teach me to fly. Forgive me for loving anyone who looked me in the eyes or flashed me a smile, and the stuff they peddle. Teach me to fly. Forgive me for buying when they told me I could be like you without you. Teach me to fly.

Well, time to wrap things up, lest I risk ending it there on a deceptively high note (a ‘false positive’, perhaps?). Moral of the story? Weekends are overrated. Avoid them if at all possible. Weekdays? Avoid those as well, if you can. But since that doesn’t really leave you with much, if anything, I suppose I will leave you with this final dino-nugget of wisdom and ray of ambiguity: make the most of your Thursdays.