Famous Last Words

Today, I finally looked myself in the mirror, took a deep breath, and admitted what you've known all along -- I can't stand not having the last word.

I'll spare you the long, drawn-out, work-related story that led to my having this revelation.  I'm pretty sure that you don't want to hear the details of the completely ridiculous administrative process that was being forced down my throat and my Quixotic attempt to fight back.  And, as entertaining as I'm sure you'd find them, I'm certain you don't want to see the long trail of e-mails that went back-and-forth all day as I continued to push back against the "man."  Instead, I'll leave you with my last act of the work day.

Just after 7PM, I drafted one final rebuttal to the longest and most frustrating e-mail string known to man.  I re-read my missive with smug and absolute satisfaction.  "It's perfect," I said to myself.  Why shouldn't it be?  I'd had a full day to stew on things, pick apart the flaws in the argument of my foes, and organize my defense.  Now, I was ready.  My logic was brilliant.  My choice of words was perfect.  Victory was imminent.  All that was left to do was to hit "Send" and then log-off for the day in triumph.

Then it hit me.  What, exactly, would I be winning?  There wasn't going to be a trophy.  And, how many times have I told people to pick up the phone and talk to their colleagues rather than rely on e-mail?  How many times have I read someone's snide e-mail and cursed them out from one thousand miles away?  Just today alone, the answer to that was close to a dozen.

So, instead of hitting "Send," I hit "Delete."  I told myself that I wasn't giving up -- I was giving in.  And, you know what?  It actually felt pretty good.  We'll see how I feel tomorrow. 

Now I Get It

The last few years that Nick was in high school, he used to talk about Qdoba quite a bit.  From what I could tell, Qdoba was the place where every Howard County high school kid with a driver's license would head for their after-school snack.

Up until yesterday, my experience with Qdoba had been limited to Jay's postseason soccer dinners the past two years.  Knowing that their sons' were addicted to Qdoba, the team parents made sure that was what we had to eat at the banquet.  The first year, whoever ordered the food didn't get quite enough.  By the time I made it to the buffet table, all that was left was chips and salsa.  The second year, the food held out a little longer and I was able to get a pretty good pile of chicken, cheese, guacamole, salsa, and chips on my plate.  It was pretty good but I still hadn't had the entire Qdoba experience.

That changed last night.  We were out on Route 40 and decided to stop at Qdoba for dinner.  I approached the counter pretty warily as I wasn't completely sure how to order.  After letting Kim and Jay go first, I had it figured out.  I got a burrito with chicken, black beans, brown rice, guacamole, tomatoes, lettuce, and ranchera sauce.

We had decided to get take-out rather than eat at the restaurant.  Since the cashier put our purchases into a bag and handed the bag to Kim, it wasn't til I got home that I found out how much my burrito weighed.  It was mammoth, almost the size of a brick.  I'm the kind of person who appreciates the size of my fast food serving almost as much as its taste.  So, I was feeling pretty good.  I only felt better after taking my first bite.

At last, I understood Nick's fascination with Qdoba.  Yes, my burrito was messy.  Yes, I'll admit that it was so big that it actually got a little bit monotonous eating it.  And, yes, I can't imagine it was that good for me with all that ranchera sauce oozing out of it.  But, who cares?  It was absolutely delicious.  The only thing wrong with it was that it almost didn't leave me any room for my applie pie for dessert.  Almost.

Excuses, Excuses

There are all kinds of reasons not to go running at 5:30AM on a Thursday morning in February:

• First, there's the temperature. It was just 21.4 degrees this morning.  That's a bit better than the 15.2 degrees on Tuesday morning but it's still pretty darn cold.
• Second, there's the dark.  By this time of the year, we're working on three straight months of trudging outside when it's still pitch black.That's pretty depressing.
• Then, there's the fact that it's cold & flu season.  Do I really want to take the risk of getting worn down when Kim and Jay have been hacking away for the past few days?

Those are some pretty good reasons not to head out, right?  But, when I got up this morning, grabbed my gear, and headed downstairs, it wasn't any of those things that stopped me in my tracks when I got to the door.  Instead, it was the laundry.

I have a confession to make -- I don't wash my running clothes each time I wear them.  You read that right.  They do go through the regular wash on Mondays and Fridays with the rest of the dirty clothes in the house.  But, on the other days of the week, I wash them by hand.

"Wash" is probably not the right word.  After I get back from my run, I fill my bathroom sink up with water, throw my shorts and shirt in the sink, and let them sit there while I shower.  When I get out of the shower, I swish things around a bit, drain the water out of the sink, and then wring out my clothes.  It's that last part that I hate.

It's one thing to wring out a singlet in the summer.  It's something entirely different to try and wring out a long sleeve shirt in the winter.  Water gets everywhere.  It drips on the counter.  It drips on the floor.  Most mornings, it even manages to get on the mirror.  Worst of all, while I'm wringing out one part of the shirt, the excess water invariably just runs down and soaks another part of the shirt.  That means I have to start all over again.  The whole process is just ridiculous.  This morning, I just decided I couldn't do it any more.

Of course, I could just buy a couple more shirts and shorts and wear a different one each morning.  That would be too easy, though.  And, it would take away one of my excuses.  I couldn't have that happen.

I Love This Show

Kim makes fun of me for being addicted to "The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills."  I'm sorry, but this show is just way too awesome for me to not watch it.  Thank goodness Hannah introduced me to it over the holidays. 

If you've never given it a chance, you're really missing out on something special.  Just to give you a little dose of what you're missing, here are a few lines from tonight's episode.

1. "Well, he almost broke my new nose." (Kim, when asked what had happened with her cute little dog.)
2. "No idea."  (Taylor, who had just called to announce her impromptu plan to fly off with her new love to Beaver Creek for the weekend, after being asked if she knew where her little 6-year old daughter was.)
3. "Tonight's not only a special night because of my beautiful new nose but because I get to bring all you special friends together."  (Kim, just before unveiling her new nose to her assembled friends and family.)

And that was just the first 10 minutes of the show.  We haven't even gotten to Kyle's White Party.  It's going to be absolutely amazing, I'm sure.

Really?

If you're driving down I-95, minding your own business at about 70 MPH in a 65 MPH zone, do you expect to get pulled over?  I certainly didn't.  But, that's what happened this evening.

I was just south of the North East (MD) exit.  I was actually paying attention to my speed because I'd gotten a speed camera ticket just south of there a couple weeks ago for going 69 MPH in a 55 MPH work zone.  Those speed zone cameras are my Achilles' heel.  I'm good for about two speed zone camera violations per year.  Since I was already halfway to my quota and it's only February 14th, I was paying extra special attention to how fast I was going.

Nonetheless, all of a sudden, I had flashing lights in my rearview mirror.  It took only a split second to tell that the trooper was trying to get my attention.  I worked my way across several lanes of traffic and pulled over on the shoulder.  I said a quick "Thank you" to God for helping me get over to the shoulder without causing an accident.

As I sat there, visions of rapidly rising auto insurance rates started racing through my head.  So did a bunch of other questions.  Just before I saw the flashing lights, a car had passed me on my left.  So, why was I the one getting pulled over?  Did he think I was on my cell phone?  I knew that wasn't the case.  What could it be?

When the trooper finally got out of his car and walked over to my driver's side window, he introduced himself and asked if I knew why he'd pulled me over.  "No, I really don't," I answered.  "Your front right headlight is out," he told me.  Thankfully, I didn't respond with what immediately came to mind, which was "You pulled me over for that?"  Instead, I politely thanked him for letting me know, waited for him to write up the warning, thanked him again, and then drove away.  I'm getting so good with authority figures as I get older.

Now, if only I could remember to be so well-behaved at work.

The Pope's Official Resignation Letter

You may know that Paolo Gabriele, Pope Benedict XVI's personal butler, was arrested in the spring of 2012 for leaking the Pope's confidential correspondence.  What you may not know is that one of those pieces of leaked correspondence was a first draft of the Pope's resignation letter.  My friend Paolo, recently pardoned by the Pope, shared that first draft with me earlier this morning, shortly after the news of the Pope's resignation became public.  I'm sharing it here with you now for the first time publicly.

My dear brothers and sisters in Christ,

Just yesterday, I received the Sacrament of Penance.  I was so excited.  It was my first confession in nearly 30 years!  You don't even want to know what that last one was all about -- all I can tell you is that it had something to do with Mother Theresa (or Aggie as us guys used to call her).

Anyway, I was in need of the sacrament because I'd taken the Lord's name in vain after accidentally stubbing my toe walking downstairs to have breakfast.  I was in a bit of a hurry because it was Sunday.  Sunday breakfast is my favorite because I have two hosts instead of just one.  I spread a little raspberry jam on each of them.  It's so tasty.  I was so looking forward to breakfast that I was in a bit of a hurry as I headed down the front stairs.  Just two steps from the bottom, I stubbed my big left toe.  If only I didn't have to always wear sandals, I don't think it would have hurt nearly as much.

So, there I was, in the confessional booth.  After hearing my confession, Monsignor Clemente assured me that God forgave me -- although he still asked that I say five Our Father's and ten Hail Mary's, just to be sure.  I'd made it all the way through the first two Our Father's when I remembered that I had papal infallability.  "Enough of this nonsense," I thought to myself.  "Who the hell does Clemente think he is, asking me to say five Our Father's and ten Hail Mary's just because I yelled out 'God-dang-it' when I hurt my toe?  What would he have done?"

That's when it struck me.  I'm just a man -- flesh and blood like the rest of you.  Yes, every time I go out in public, I'm wearing an unflattering sack dress, but I'm still just a man.  And, you know what?  It's time for this 85-year old man to live a little.  Enough with all this praying.  I mean, how much praying can one man do?

So, I've decided to call it a day.  Yes, I'll miss the Popemobile, the triregnum, the pastoral staff, and the ring of the fisherman.  But, I'm not going to miss that damned pallium one bit.  It always gave me a terrible rash.

Humbly yours,

Benedict XVI
Bishop of Rome, Vicar of Jesus Christ, Successor of the Prince of the Apostles, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Church, Primate of Italy, Archbishop and Metropolitan of the Roman Province, Sovereign of the State of Vatican City, and Servant of the Servants of God

The Best Movie Ever?

In a pretty unusual move for me, I stayed awake til 11PM last night.  That was a pretty significant accomplishment for a Friday night, particularly considering I had a glass of wine for dinner.  What kept me up til then, you ask?  That would be "The Last Song" starring the incomparable Miley Cyrus.

For the first 15 minutes or so of the movie, I pretended to not pay attention.  Come on, the film starred Miley Cyrus, for God's sake.  No self-respecting man would be caught dead watching it, right?  But, soon enough, I was hanging on every word.

The plot had everything:

• First, we've got a rebellious teen-age daughter (Ronnie -- short for Veronica), forced to spend the summer after her senior year in high school with her dying father in a remote Georgia beach town.
• To further complicate things, Ronnie's parents are divorced and she's very angry with her father for abandoning her. Remember Richard Gere telling Julia Roberts during the bathtub scene in "Pretty Woman" how all those years of therapy had shown him that he was "very angry" with his father?  Well, Ronnie knows exactly how he feels.
• For comic relief (and tears at the end, of course), there's also a cute little brother who's along for the summer.
• And how perfect is it that the little Georgia town is home to an absolute dreamboat of a guy (6' 4", blond hair, chiseled body, beach volleyball player, volunteer at the local aquarium) who is filthy rich and immediately falls for Ronnie?
• In case this all isn't enough, did I mention that the cute guy had an older brother who was killed in a car accident one year earlier when the two of them were playing "Mercy" in the back seat of the car and distracted their mother, who then got in a wreck?
• One more thing -- Ronnie's been accepted to Juilliard but she's refusing to even play the piano as a final act of defiance towards her musician father.

Do Ronnie and her father reconcile before he dies?  Does she get the guy?  Does she start playing piano again and decide to go to Juilliard? Do I have a Y-chromosome?  You take a guess.

At Last!

I can't believe that all it took for the Ravens to finally win the Super Bowl was for Nick to not be here watching the game with me.  Truthfully, it's probably best that it happened that way.

I can only imagine what it would have been like during that second half stretch when the 49ers were getting back into the game and it appeared that the Ravens were going to choke.  Nick would have been pacing back-and-forth, yelling at the inept coaching decisions, cursing under his breath, and lamenting the poor play of the Ravens' linebackers (that would be you, Ray Lewis) who seemed a step too slow and incapable of making any sort of tackle without being driven two or three yards backwards.

As if that wouldn't have been bad enough for Nick, I would have been making him even angrier by offering helpful comments like "I really hope the Ravens don't blow this thing" and "I wonder what would have happened if the power outage hadn't happened?"  And, acting as if I don't do the same thing when my favorite team is going through a bad stretch, I also would have been sure to tell him repeatedly to "Stop being so negative" and "Be quiet."  Yes, it would have been quite a pleasant evening at our house if we'd been watching the game together.

Seriously, I'm very happy for Nick.  He was too young to really remember the Ravens first Super Bowl victory.  Now, his team has won the big game and he'll be able to hold on to that memory forever.

Maybe I can have the same experience some day.    

Power Outage?

The lights are out at the Super Bowl.  Seriously?  At America's premier sporting event we can't keep the power on in the stadium?  What's wrong with this country?

I smell a conspiracy.  The Ravens have been completely dominating the game.  Colin Kapernick looks exactly like a guy who's only started 9 previous games.  The 49ers defense can't stop Joe Flacco.  Jacoby Jones is on fire.  I hope nothing changes once the lights come back on at the Superdome.

In any event, this game's already taking entirely too long.  The first quarter was fine.  In the second quarter, though, things started to slow down.  Then, we had to sit through that ridiculous Beyonce halftime show.  What was that exactly?  Was it a concert?  Was it a dance revue?  Or, was it just an excuse for Beyonce to dress up in a leather unitard and toss her hair around?

Can you imagine going to a full Beyonce concert?  What a nightmare that would be.  If she'd brought Kurt Hummel out to kick a field goal during "Single Ladies," I would have been happier.

When I See You Smile

I was at a conference this week where the keynote speaker was a guy named Sam Parker.   He’s the author of a short book called 212 - The Extra Degree.  The title of the book references the fact that, at 211 degrees, water is hot.  However, if you increase the temperature of that water by just 1 degree to 212 degrees, the water boils and creates steam, which can power a locomotive.  Parker’s concept is that very minor adjustments in our daily lives can have remarkable impacts.  As corny (and simple) as that all sounds, he was actually a very good speaker and made a lot of good suggestions that I'm going to try and incorporate.

One of the things that Parker mentioned was how simply smiling three more times a day can make a difference.  I decided to give that a try since I’ve often heard that I “look angry.”  I think it’s because I have to work extra hard to keep my lips closed over my (large and crooked) teeth.  That makes me look like I’m frowning even when I’m not the least bit unhappy.

Today, as I was standing in line waiting to board my plane home from Miami, a woman in the gate area passed by me.  Our eyes briefly met and, keeping my new goal in mind, I gave her a polite smile.  She returned my smile and that was that.

Ten minutes later, I was in my window seat, settling in for the flight home.  The flight attendant had said that our plane wouldn’t be full so I was looking forward to putting my laptop bag underneath the middle seat and stretching my legs out in front of me.  I had a New Yorker out and was beginning to read it when someone else stepped into my row.  It was the woman from the gate area.  I figured that she would take the aisle seat but, instead, she plopped down right next to me in the middle seat.  “That’s a bit odd,” I thought.  “Maybe she’s traveling with someone and they’re going to take the aisle seat next to her.”

Nope.  A few minutes later, the last of the passengers had boarded the plane and taken their seats.  My traveling companion didn't have a friend on the flight and the aisle seat remained open.  But, she didn't slide over.  Instead, she stayed right where she was -- which was right next to me.  "This is just wierd," I said to myself.

It got just a bit wierder.  First, as we were rumbling down the runway to take off, she made the sign of the cross twice. Then, once we got airborne, she reached into her bag and pulled out a book to read.  What book, you might ask?  That would be Fifty Shades of Grey.  I couldn't believe it.  There are empty seats on the plane.  She sat down right next to a complete stranger.  And, then she pulled out that book and started to read it?  I actually got a little scared.

Of course, I didn't say or do anything.  I just sat there for a couple hours, read my magazine, did some work, and tried to imagine what the next odd piece of behavior would be.  Thankfully, it never came.  When we landed, my seat mate quietly packed her book, stood up, and left.  We never said a word.  I gave a sigh of relief.  So much for this smiling thing.