Mmm Cake

My wife made me a marble cake…
But I mistook it for a granite cake.

That joke exemplifies how I feel about blogging. If there is something humorous to write about, I kill it with poor delivery.11.16.15
But that’s why they call it a “blog,” I guess. (In Latin, “blog” means “a pile of steaming chicken poop, but we see that you made an effort, so good job nit wit” Latin is laden with insults, which is why Latinas now speak Spanish instead of Latin. true story.)

So thanks to the few of you who muddle through the sloppy wording and poor comedic timing while I learn how to write good. I’ll be sure to thank you in my first book.

Pinkie Poo

11.13.15

I was thinking today (by thinking I mean “using the toilet”)…Since I use the bathroom about 5 times more frequently than someone who does not have colitis, it is five times more impressive that I haven’t gotten pink eye yet.

*edit: after a cursory check  of the internet, I have learned that pink eye can be caused by many things, and not necessarily always fecal matter in your eyes. But let’s be honest. If you have pink eye, everybody’s gonna assume you were slingin’ poo like a monkey at the zoo. Which is fine. You can sling poo like a monkey if you want to. As long as you don’t throw it at the monkeys. They don’t allow that. Trust me, I know. Some of my best friends are monkeys. Ha. Just kidding, I’m not cool enough to hang with the monkeys.

I had a little shadow

A high school sophomore job shadowed me today. At one point when I asked if I’m going too fast, he replied, “I think I’m getting some of this…”

That should have been a hint for me to slow down and not go so in depth, but I was Sooooooo excited that I didn’t have to use the bathroom (after a few days of being anxious that I’d have to use the bathroom 3 times in my hour and a half job shadow) that I just kept zooming.

I’m so fast! Look at me! I don’t even have to stop to use the bathroom!

(needless to say, he was quite impressed with my ability to hold my bowel movements)

He gave me an “Uh, what?” when I asked him to rank my ability to hold BMs. I’m assuming “Uh what” is equal to “off the charts” since it is, indeed not on the 1-10 scale I specified.

Thoughts from the Handicap Stall

Oh, hey you. I know you. You are the leading expert on all things political, racial, and sports doping related since reading Quartz this morning, aren’t  you?

Well, I’m gonna tell you about a bigger issue than all of those.

Deforestation.

Here is a test: think of the last pencil you used. Was it wooden? Nope. It wasn’t. It was mechanical. You know how I know?

Because they aren’t making any more wooden pencils. There are exactly NO more trees in existence that have yellow bark and graphite cores to turn into pencils. We used them all up before we even realized it. I know because I googled it.

Still feel smart, smartypants? hmm?

Move over

Readers, today I’m blogging about something very important.

Hmm. Ok, let’s be honest, I should say: Reader, today I’m blogging about something important.

Oh, fine.  Mom, listen up, I’ve written another blog post.

Grand Rapids (the city I live in) has some of the worst drivers. I know you think Your city has the worst drivers, reader (read: mom), but Grand Rapids has something nobody else does: the nice driver.

I was in a line of about 100 cars inching along on a main road on my way to work. Each foot was painfully slow. A single car pulls up to a stop sign ahead of me. I had been waiting in this line for nearly ten minutes, or about 5 “mattress blow out” radio commercials. Seeing that the car wanted to get in our lane, the guy (read: woman) in the car front of me immediately stops even though he (she) is halfway through the intersection.

She wildly waves him in, and resumes talking to herself.  (Ok, I couldn’t hear her, but I’m just assuming she was talking to herself since only a crazy person would let in a car that just got there when we’ve been waiting so long that all the mattresses are sold by now.)

Then, not ten seconds later, as we are still stopped, another driver pulls up, and is immediately waved in enthusiastically by the kind lady in front of me. I thought I was mad at first, but then she did it a freaking third time!

By then my front bumper was practically inside her trunk, so I had a good look at her face in the rear view mirror as she looked up and scowled at me. Naturally, I honked at her. Nobody gets away with being this moronic without Tim hoking at them.

Surprisingly, the honking did not help. There were no more cars to let in, but our line was still not moving.

Then the kind idiot reaches over and grabs what I assume was a very intriguing book and a blanket, and proceeded to take a 10 minute nap.

While yelling, “WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING?” I inched forward and rolled down my window so she could hear me, then I inched some more. Which, as you may have guessed, did nothing.

Eventually she woke up and saw that traffic had cleared. Unfortunately for the half of Grand Rapids that was in line behind me, she also saw a squirrel in a tree ahead a few yards.  Naturally, she waved it across, too.

But the squirrel wasn’t interested in crossing the road. It was thinking, “Why is that Crazy waving at me? I wonder what book she is reading? I wonder if it is Who moved my cheese?” (Squirrels are constantly playing the question game… and reading books…they love to be informed…which is why my blog does so well in the 3-8 year old squirrel demographic. Just kidding. But I hope to break into that group soon with my new book Who moved my nuts? and the sequel: Who planted a tree right where I buried my acorns?)

Ok, where was I?  Right, the wavy lady was about to attack the squirrel. She left her car and climbed up the tree (as “nice ladies” sometimes do in the name of being a courteous driver) and shooed the squirrel across the road.

The oncoming traffic was not at a stand still, though, and the squirrel was squished by a black Cadillac SUV, killing half of my future target audience. (it is hard to train a squirrel to read).

Seeing the smattering of fur in the center lane was the last straw for the wavy lady. The only sensible thing was to pull her car into oncoming traffic so she could move it’s little body to the side of the road. She did just that. Surprisingly, oncoming traffic stopped safely and without honking or yelling. This must not be the first squirrel crazy lady has murdered.

As I watched her pick up and pet the oozing pile of fuz and guts and move it to the side of the road, I heard muffled honking in the distance.

As I strained to hear where it was coming from through the haze, I realized I was leaned over my steering wheel and drooling on my pants. When the fuzz had cleared and I had awoken completely , I saw that the road was clear in front of me as far as I could see, and there was a line of people behind me honking and yelling. The car behind me was nearly in my backseat, so I waved kindly and pulled through the light just as it was turning red.

I should really set an alarm for these stoplight naps.

Procrastination Blogging

The following is a post I wrote in September, and never got around to publishing:

I’m procrastinating.

More specifically, I’m procrastination blogging. My wife, Rachel, and I recently bought a “fixer-upper.” Recently meaning about six and a half renovation projects ago. After spending a summer of evenings and weekends doing these projects, we are as burned out as our front porch flood light. As with every home improvement remodel, the end is difficult to see. Especially so for us because of the porch light issue.

We have made great strides. The kitchen is 80% complete. We have finished painting the bedrooms and building a master closet. Our room we are most proud of is the bathroom, which we haven’t touched. Still patting ourselves on the back for having the “wisdom” (read: lack of motivation)  to leave it alone.

It is undoubtedly my favorite room. Not only because of my colitis, but because it is the only room I can sit in and day-dream about normal things like pizza and superpowers, and not see 101 issues around me that need “touching up” or “a little sanding” or “major structural reinforcement.” To be completely honest, for a few weeks it was the only room I could sit down in, as our furniture was in storage (read: our garage).

The next big project is to tile the dining room. We already tiled the kitchen, so we thought the dining room would go lickity-split. That was before we realized whoever poured the concrete floors in the dining room suffered from severe vertigo. When we removed the carpeting, we saw the bare concrete floor undulating below us like the great wall of china. Except with fewer Chinese people. Some Chinese people…our neighbors on the north side…oh, never mind.

This brings you, reader, up to date. Clearly the dining room is going to take many nights of contemplation before a viable solution (read: motivation to get off my butt) will be found. And I have decided the perfect way to “contemplate” is to write a blog post!  Well, now that I’m all caught up on my Netflix shows.

So here we are, reader. You, Me, and the dining room floor. If you have any words of encouragement, feel free to comment below.

Free 15 Year Old

 

 

 

I saw this add on craigslist today:

15yo

In case you can’t read it, it says:

FREE TEENAGER 15 YEAR OLD: I have a free 15 year old you can come pick him and his stuff up. His name is byron but you can rename him whatever you please. I just don’t have time for his sh** anymore. Hes good kid just getting mixed up in the wrong crowd. hes white has hair on his face blonde. Blue eyes perfect arian race hes a rare breed. if intrested call / text …

Obviously so many questions arise. Such as: How can this 15 year old have more facial hair than me?  What did this kid to to warrant the “free” page on craigslist?  Not even the “barter” page?

The poster comments that Byron is in with the wrong crowd, but judging by the lack of punctuation and correct sentence structure used by the person posting (if there is one thing WordPress users are about it’s judging based on grammar, right?), poor Byron sounds like a product of his surroundings.

Sorry, disgruntled parent. I’m not “intrested.”

 

Kiss your boss day

Today I walked into a webinar meeting late and sat between my two bosses, Jeff and Dan. It was a bring your own lunch meeting that started at 12:30, and I had already eaten most of my lunch, so I just had some crackers and a bag of hershey’s kisses left to enjoy. I sat down and plopped my food on the table and Jeff said “Oh, great, you brought us candy?” And without thinking I said, “Sure, you guys want some kisses?”
They laughed as I tried to think of a way to pass it off as not being an overeager brown noser. Then Jeff said “Dan likes it when you tickle his neck,” and we all laughed.
Moral of the story: Don’t be overeager to share your kisses.

Dr. Rant

When I started treatment for my ulcerative colitis, I was hesitant to jump into taking a lot of medication. I’ve always been skeptical of a “quick fix” mentality, and suspect a pill that can fix a disease probably has unwanted side effects.

That said, I agreed with my doc that something had to be done, so I started on meds.

I’ve been getting progressively better over the course of 2  years, and every time I talk to my doc, I ask if I can reduce or drop some meds. I’ve gone from one to three to five back down to three.

One med I’m on now is a very small dose of prednisone (sine this past spring), and my doc instructed me to take 1/2 or 1 pill a day, as I “need it.”

After thanksgiving, I had an office visit, and explained that I had been taking one pill a day to be sure I didn’t feel horrible in on the 7 hr car ride, and that I have resumed my 1/2 daily dose. My doc proceeded to lecture me about how “we need to get me off prednisone”, and how I “can’t just be taking more pills when I feel bad.”

Gaaaa!  I KNOW that. I’ve been asking to drop the prednisone for Months now, but he always says “we will see how you are feeling on our next office visit.” Which sure makes it seem like he is trying to pump me for office visits and more income for him.

Am I the only one here who doesn’t like his doctor?