Hey, Daniel Powter, you suck. Yeah, maybe I did have a bad day. The day is almost done (Editor's Note: Since I still am sans internet, the day was done last night), so now I can take a look back at it. By my standards, it was a bad day. No one that I know got hypothermia after falling off a crab boat in the Bering Sea. No, my identity wasn’t stolen while swiping my credit card, trying to become a Maxx-inista. Turns out, my gas pedal came back up after I pressed it down in the Altima. So maybe, by standards other than my own, the day wasn’t all that bad.
My idea of a bad day? Getting stood up by AT&T, for starters. I can’t remember if I have shared this on here before, and I can’t check for reasons that have been and will continue to be mentioned, but my 50 year old house doesn’t have a phone jack. No, not one. No, not one. As such, AT&T has to come out and install one so that I can get internet service. My sweet mother was kind enough to come hang out at the house from 8-12 [Note: While pointing subtlety out removes all subtlety, please note the subtlety that my wife didn’t stay at the house – that roster spot is waiting for just the right free agent]. Alas, the phone company didn’t come, and the only numbers I had rang endlessly for 20 minutes. You’d think the phone company could answer their leading product occasionally.
Throw on a few hours of monotony, some traffic, a dash of attitude, a cellulite email I wish I had never seen, and (apparently) a few too many stripes for one day’s apparel, and that’s as bad as it gets in my book. While spitting into the wind at karma, my days don’t get much worse than that. Funny how it takes until the 15th hour for me to realize, “Hey, moron, suck it up.” Miss Tracy, I hope you take a break from noticing all the sentence fragments to enjoy the commas I just used to set off the noun of direct address. On my bad day, I still got to spend the day with people I like. I ate 2 square meals and a triangle… I’m not really a breakfast guy… I sang along to a good 22 or so songs. I hung out at Riverwood with a few cool youth group kids, and a few cooler old people. On top of that, I’ve got 20 people lighting me up with motivational scripture on facebook updates.
So, thanks, God, for my bad day. Thank You for the kindness, laughter, and joy that filled my bad day. Thanks for letting me spend my bad day, constantly coming in contact with friends and family. And Thank You for not letting me freeze to death on an Alaskan crab boat... Maybe tomorrow will be better.
You know the worst part of my bad day? Not being able to come up with an appropriate synonym for “bad day”.
10.14.2010
10.06.2010
"Name It Sex and Everyone Will Read It."
So, I’m driving home last night from South Nashville, when 107.5 the River [Note: I have yet to receive any advertisement revenue from local businesses. However, when this blog takes over 4th place on most frequented websites, behind the likes of Google, Facebook and Wikipedia, I will be happy to endorse almost anything.] reveals that bed-checks are over and requests have taken their place.
First off, for those of you who only listen to country because someone convinced you that if you want to claim Nashville as home, you must only listen to country, must drink sweet tea at every meal, and must have some weird obsession with John Deere products… expand your horizons. Continuing, a bed-check is where someone, typically a middle school girl, calls a radio DJ who goes by the name Butter, and name-drops their middle school friends, probably sneaks in a high schooler to be cool, then usually finishes by giving Butter a “bed-check”. You can see how that would be appealing to the average radio listener.
So the sacred bed-check has been forsaken in favor of the good ol’ reliable listener requests. Genius. To put this in perspective for those below the Mason-Dixon line, but outside the reach of the River, bed-checks are like an electric push mower, and taking requests is like a John Deere tractor.
Moving on, as I listened to the requests poor in from Music City, you know what didn’t come up? Well, yes, technically the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” isn’t wrong, but what I was looking for “Billionaire.” You know what was requested? “Ice Ice Baby.” To call say Robert Van Winkle bridges generational gaps is selling him short.
After going on… conservative estimate… 40-plus Riverwood Youth Group trips [Note: For the uninformed, I either served as a “youth intern” or was that creepy old guy who never really left the youth group – your call], there are a few songs that are more than pop culture. The short list: Hey Ya, Bohemian Rhapsody, Don’t Stop Believing, and Ice Ice Baby.
Hey Ya: Arguably the greatest song to ever be released… from the perspective of the person responsible for setting up the Christian school basketball game playlist. Beyond shaking it like a Polaroid picture, it’s as clean as a whistle. Trust me. After all, I am your neighbor.
Bohemian Rhapsody: Not only is it a song of epic proportions by one of the greatest bands of all time, it also has the added benefit of being physically impossible to sing along with. However, that has not stopped millions of people from trying. Bismillah.
Don’t Stop Believing: In a lonely world, you know who has this song in common? Strangers. When you get right down to it, we’re all living just to find emotion, and when you take the Journey through life, why not take it with the cute small town girl or that strapping city boy?
Ice Ice Baby: You know what Americans can’t resist? [I’ve asked a lot of questions here. Turns out, there’s no one to answer but me. Feel free to answer aloud. Especially if you’re reading this on your phone in a public restroom.] Americans can’t resist an underdog. The odds were, are, and will be stacked against Rob. I’m not playing the race card. Whether he’s white, black, or Japanese, he ‘s a dull pair of Wal-Mart hedgeclippers in a world full of Stihl chainsaw rappers. But somehow, he overcame the odds and released a nonsensical, self-absorbed collection of one-liners that blazed a trail. I’m not saying he was the first. “That’s what she said” wasn’t the first witty quip, but it raised the bar.
I love M&Ms, preferably peanut butter, and Marshall Mathers, but there’s only so many times I can listen to Rihanna sing about liking pain. For one hour, top 40 [More like top 5, da dum… chh] radio got it right: Stop telling people what to like and let their ears splash in a warm pool of greatness without ever having to tilt their collective head and shake the moisture out.
First off, for those of you who only listen to country because someone convinced you that if you want to claim Nashville as home, you must only listen to country, must drink sweet tea at every meal, and must have some weird obsession with John Deere products… expand your horizons. Continuing, a bed-check is where someone, typically a middle school girl, calls a radio DJ who goes by the name Butter, and name-drops their middle school friends, probably sneaks in a high schooler to be cool, then usually finishes by giving Butter a “bed-check”. You can see how that would be appealing to the average radio listener.
So the sacred bed-check has been forsaken in favor of the good ol’ reliable listener requests. Genius. To put this in perspective for those below the Mason-Dixon line, but outside the reach of the River, bed-checks are like an electric push mower, and taking requests is like a John Deere tractor.
Moving on, as I listened to the requests poor in from Music City, you know what didn’t come up? Well, yes, technically the Righteous Brothers’ “Unchained Melody” isn’t wrong, but what I was looking for “Billionaire.” You know what was requested? “Ice Ice Baby.” To call say Robert Van Winkle bridges generational gaps is selling him short.
After going on… conservative estimate… 40-plus Riverwood Youth Group trips [Note: For the uninformed, I either served as a “youth intern” or was that creepy old guy who never really left the youth group – your call], there are a few songs that are more than pop culture. The short list: Hey Ya, Bohemian Rhapsody, Don’t Stop Believing, and Ice Ice Baby.
Hey Ya: Arguably the greatest song to ever be released… from the perspective of the person responsible for setting up the Christian school basketball game playlist. Beyond shaking it like a Polaroid picture, it’s as clean as a whistle. Trust me. After all, I am your neighbor.
Bohemian Rhapsody: Not only is it a song of epic proportions by one of the greatest bands of all time, it also has the added benefit of being physically impossible to sing along with. However, that has not stopped millions of people from trying. Bismillah.
Don’t Stop Believing: In a lonely world, you know who has this song in common? Strangers. When you get right down to it, we’re all living just to find emotion, and when you take the Journey through life, why not take it with the cute small town girl or that strapping city boy?
Ice Ice Baby: You know what Americans can’t resist? [I’ve asked a lot of questions here. Turns out, there’s no one to answer but me. Feel free to answer aloud. Especially if you’re reading this on your phone in a public restroom.] Americans can’t resist an underdog. The odds were, are, and will be stacked against Rob. I’m not playing the race card. Whether he’s white, black, or Japanese, he ‘s a dull pair of Wal-Mart hedgeclippers in a world full of Stihl chainsaw rappers. But somehow, he overcame the odds and released a nonsensical, self-absorbed collection of one-liners that blazed a trail. I’m not saying he was the first. “That’s what she said” wasn’t the first witty quip, but it raised the bar.
I love M&Ms, preferably peanut butter, and Marshall Mathers, but there’s only so many times I can listen to Rihanna sing about liking pain. For one hour, top 40 [More like top 5, da dum… chh] radio got it right: Stop telling people what to like and let their ears splash in a warm pool of greatness without ever having to tilt their collective head and shake the moisture out.
9.29.2010
Dumps Like A Truck. Truck. Truck.
Blogging is pretty much an exact science… You want to write about the random stuff that happens in your life? Someone will read it.
Hello, someone.
So I got a haircut yesterday. You’re right, that is the most interesting thing you’ve read today. Anyway, I walk in, [Note: I just did some quick research to see if I could say “I walked right in and sat right down,” but, alas, that is the jingle for the slightly shoddier low-budget haircut joint.] and I stroll on up to the computer, just like every other time. They take my name, and tell me it will be “just one minute.”
I had already mentally prepared to spend 5-plus minutes perusing the internet and trick or tweeting on my phone, so their illusion of speed did not phase me. As I will still trying to determine the appropriate complimentary and/or supplementary angles for my wallet, butt, and the old plastic chair, the greeter lady informed me that she was sorry, but it would take a little longer than they thought.
Fast-forward five minutes. In fact, go ahead and fast forward far enough to where you are in a world where the phrase “fast forward” garners only blank stares because the audience you are speaking to has never fast-forwarded anything. It’s a blu-ray world, people. Time to part with the Betamax. Anyway, similar to the night before Christmas…
“That’s me.” Yeah, go figure, the name in the computer was the one guy who was in the waiting area. It was at this point she began to explain that once she had a lady named Charlie who was waiting when she called for a man named Charlie to get a haircut. I honestly enjoy it when people screw up my name or are certain they heard it incorrectly. It’s fun to see how people respond.
I corroborated her story by looking around to make sure no criminals’ bodies were strewn about the place with major head wounds. She started with the clippers. I guess she was making sure the guard she had put on them would stay in place, but from the cut-ee’s perspective, it felt more like the potential for intracranial [Note: Bill Gates corrected my typing of “intercranial”. I would think “intracranial would be between craniums, but I’m no scientist.] bleeding.
She then moved in on the back of my neck. She worked on it. She moved my head. She worked on it some more. Moved my head some more. It wasn’t until my chin was resting on my chest and she pushed my head down that I offered up a little resistance. “Sorry, honey, but you’ve got a tornado back here.” Good to know. A few gray hairs and a natural disaster never hurt anyone. I still don’t know what that means beyond 3 minutes of trimming.
Overall, it was a good trip. $12 well spent… At least I hope it was $12. Their computer got stolen and she had to give me a paper receipt. I’m no expert on internal controls, but that could have been a very expensive low-budget haircut.
Hello, someone.
So I got a haircut yesterday. You’re right, that is the most interesting thing you’ve read today. Anyway, I walk in, [Note: I just did some quick research to see if I could say “I walked right in and sat right down,” but, alas, that is the jingle for the slightly shoddier low-budget haircut joint.] and I stroll on up to the computer, just like every other time. They take my name, and tell me it will be “just one minute.”
I had already mentally prepared to spend 5-plus minutes perusing the internet and trick or tweeting on my phone, so their illusion of speed did not phase me. As I will still trying to determine the appropriate complimentary and/or supplementary angles for my wallet, butt, and the old plastic chair, the greeter lady informed me that she was sorry, but it would take a little longer than they thought.
Fast-forward five minutes. In fact, go ahead and fast forward far enough to where you are in a world where the phrase “fast forward” garners only blank stares because the audience you are speaking to has never fast-forwarded anything. It’s a blu-ray world, people. Time to part with the Betamax. Anyway, similar to the night before Christmas…
All the children were nestled all scared in their chairs
While slightly inebriated women ran sharp implements through their hair.
On second thought, I might just wear a kerchief or even a cap.
Because that lady with the scissors redefines a deathtrap.
When from behind the colored hair gel, there arose such a clatter
Clippers were dropped so all could help in the matter.
The most experienced stylist spoke with such candor
“Who [on God’s green earth] is Loren Sanders?”
While slightly inebriated women ran sharp implements through their hair.
On second thought, I might just wear a kerchief or even a cap.
Because that lady with the scissors redefines a deathtrap.
When from behind the colored hair gel, there arose such a clatter
Clippers were dropped so all could help in the matter.
The most experienced stylist spoke with such candor
“Who [on God’s green earth] is Loren Sanders?”
“That’s me.” Yeah, go figure, the name in the computer was the one guy who was in the waiting area. It was at this point she began to explain that once she had a lady named Charlie who was waiting when she called for a man named Charlie to get a haircut. I honestly enjoy it when people screw up my name or are certain they heard it incorrectly. It’s fun to see how people respond.
Like the lady at the dollar store a couple of years back… They don’t let you take the carts out of the dollar store. In fact, they attached poles to each cart to prevent anyone who believes the whole “4-on-the-floor” thing from rolling them out the door. So, this older lady asked me to help her get her bags from the door to her car. As I was going back in after saving the world, she said, “Now what’s your name again?” As if I had told her before, I replied, “Loren.” “Loren?” “Yes ma’am.” “Wow. That must have been rough.”
What’s a story without a tangent or two? I’ll tell you what it is, it’s a circle, and you’re stuck going round and round and not really having any idea what you’re missing out on outside your circle world. So my court-appointed hairdresser quickly changes the subject as we walk to her chair. She tells me they got robbed, and the thieves took the computer. She then begins cutting my hair. Don’t worry, she wasn’t there when they robbed the place.
I corroborated her story by looking around to make sure no criminals’ bodies were strewn about the place with major head wounds. She started with the clippers. I guess she was making sure the guard she had put on them would stay in place, but from the cut-ee’s perspective, it felt more like the potential for intracranial [Note: Bill Gates corrected my typing of “intercranial”. I would think “intracranial would be between craniums, but I’m no scientist.] bleeding.
She then moved in on the back of my neck. She worked on it. She moved my head. She worked on it some more. Moved my head some more. It wasn’t until my chin was resting on my chest and she pushed my head down that I offered up a little resistance. “Sorry, honey, but you’ve got a tornado back here.” Good to know. A few gray hairs and a natural disaster never hurt anyone. I still don’t know what that means beyond 3 minutes of trimming.
Overall, it was a good trip. $12 well spent… At least I hope it was $12. Their computer got stolen and she had to give me a paper receipt. I’m no expert on internal controls, but that could have been a very expensive low-budget haircut.
9.22.2010
One Day is Coming.
You know who really suffers when a person who refuses to call himself a blogger but occasionally contributes to the blogosphere delays getting internet service at his house? The general public. I know, folks, and I'm sorry. Again, I find myself stealing church internet prior to a Wednesday night service... We'll get it straigtened out... I still have to get a phone jack, then get internet, but after that, we'll be good to go.
See you then.
See you then.
8.18.2010
Church Camp: Achieved.
...Stealing church internet to do a fantasy draft and post this (I don't yet have internet at the house. Sure, it's already been almost a month)...
As I sit here in a world without internet or television, I am greeted by a wonderful alternative to unpacking boxes full of crap that I never should have owned in the first place… telling the world (or the 4 of you reading) about church camp.
Sure, you might think I’m a little old for church camp. If I were a camper, you’d be right. But instead, I get to be a counselor. Yep, a bunch of adults who can still remember the shenanigans they pulled as campers are now put in a position to guide the youth of America and, theoretically, prevent current generation shenanigans. We’ll see how that worked out…
If you’re reading this looking for literary flow, you will be disappointed - Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Overall, it was a very calm week as far as the kids were concerned. No complaining. No injuries. Generally good attitudes. And a lot of them really took the spiritual aspects seriously. As far as the staff: One concussion. One twisted ankle. One “boxer’s fracture”. One broken leg. And two pedestrians hit by a motor vehicle. We had generally good attitudes and took the spiritual aspects seriously too, though. On to the highlights…
We go to camp at Taylor Christian Camp, located in Scottsville, Kentucky. Maybe you’re familiar with it. Maybe you know where Scottsville is. Maybe you know how to use Google maps well enough to figure out where Scottsville is. Or maybe you’re a Scottsville resident – If that’s the case and Jan of “Jan’s Bookkeeping and Tanning Salon” is reading this, kudos, Jan: your willingness to provide the perfect combination of necessary personal services to generations of Kentucky’s finest is, in a word, inspirational.
Taylor doesn’t have a pool, but we’ve got a creek. One of our staff members decided it would be a good idea to ride his mountain bike down the hill leading to the creek, grab the ropeswing, and jump off his bike into the creek water below, avoiding the drop off and certain face-plant that awaited him if he missed the rope. As I’m not too good on a bike and generally try to avoid drowning while unconscious from smashing my head into rocks, I volunteered to hold the rope…
Surprisingly, it was a semi-success. Both rider and bike ended up in the water without any blood. No spectacular stunt was pulled off the rope, but the execution was achievement enough.
Let’s see what else happened… In order to thwart the freaking out of any parents reading this, the following was done only after all parties involved were ensured that all minors were in a location far enough away to where they had no idea what was going on. We have a six foot diameter blue ball at camp. We use it to play a game where six teams each send out one person at a time to try to push the blue ball back to their team and knock over a cone. However, for as long as I can remember, the object of the game is to run at the ball at top speed and see who flies the furthest.
Well, in order to fulfill the wish of a camper who had to leave early due to our summer camp being in the fall and school starting in the middle of the week, two of the staff members agreed to take a free shot from the big blue ball. Upon review, it was determined the maximum amount of force that could be applied to the ball for said free shot would be applied by a Dodge Ram 1500. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum agreed to the truck shot. I’ve never been more scared and excited about the same moment. Naturally, we practiced this before the actual event. And just as naturally, the truck ended up going significantly faster in the actual event than it did in practice. Truck hit ball. Ball hit staff. Staff hit ground. Ball hit truck. Ball hit fallen staff. Truck bumper comes to rest within reach of staff. Silence ensues. Staff member A makes a noise and moves. Staff member B responds with noise and movement of his own. Hilarity ensues because, after all, any time something so incredibly stupid happens and no one gets seriously injured, it instantaneously achieves the highest standard of humor.
Don’t worry though, Staff member A went down the slip-n-slide the next day, got his pinky caught in a small tear on the billboards being used as the slick surface for sliding, and broke a bone in his hand. When I later pointed out the obvious that he got hit by a truck without any problems yet let his pinky send him to the hospital, I asked if he told the doctor he’d been hit by a truck. “No. Are you kidding? That didn’t come up.”
Tune in next time as we transition from the physical to the intellectual side of the TCC 2010 Story Vault.
As I sit here in a world without internet or television, I am greeted by a wonderful alternative to unpacking boxes full of crap that I never should have owned in the first place… telling the world (or the 4 of you reading) about church camp.
Sure, you might think I’m a little old for church camp. If I were a camper, you’d be right. But instead, I get to be a counselor. Yep, a bunch of adults who can still remember the shenanigans they pulled as campers are now put in a position to guide the youth of America and, theoretically, prevent current generation shenanigans. We’ll see how that worked out…
If you’re reading this looking for literary flow, you will be disappointed - Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
Overall, it was a very calm week as far as the kids were concerned. No complaining. No injuries. Generally good attitudes. And a lot of them really took the spiritual aspects seriously. As far as the staff: One concussion. One twisted ankle. One “boxer’s fracture”. One broken leg. And two pedestrians hit by a motor vehicle. We had generally good attitudes and took the spiritual aspects seriously too, though. On to the highlights…
We go to camp at Taylor Christian Camp, located in Scottsville, Kentucky. Maybe you’re familiar with it. Maybe you know where Scottsville is. Maybe you know how to use Google maps well enough to figure out where Scottsville is. Or maybe you’re a Scottsville resident – If that’s the case and Jan of “Jan’s Bookkeeping and Tanning Salon” is reading this, kudos, Jan: your willingness to provide the perfect combination of necessary personal services to generations of Kentucky’s finest is, in a word, inspirational.
Taylor doesn’t have a pool, but we’ve got a creek. One of our staff members decided it would be a good idea to ride his mountain bike down the hill leading to the creek, grab the ropeswing, and jump off his bike into the creek water below, avoiding the drop off and certain face-plant that awaited him if he missed the rope. As I’m not too good on a bike and generally try to avoid drowning while unconscious from smashing my head into rocks, I volunteered to hold the rope…
Surprisingly, it was a semi-success. Both rider and bike ended up in the water without any blood. No spectacular stunt was pulled off the rope, but the execution was achievement enough.
Let’s see what else happened… In order to thwart the freaking out of any parents reading this, the following was done only after all parties involved were ensured that all minors were in a location far enough away to where they had no idea what was going on. We have a six foot diameter blue ball at camp. We use it to play a game where six teams each send out one person at a time to try to push the blue ball back to their team and knock over a cone. However, for as long as I can remember, the object of the game is to run at the ball at top speed and see who flies the furthest.
Well, in order to fulfill the wish of a camper who had to leave early due to our summer camp being in the fall and school starting in the middle of the week, two of the staff members agreed to take a free shot from the big blue ball. Upon review, it was determined the maximum amount of force that could be applied to the ball for said free shot would be applied by a Dodge Ram 1500. Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum agreed to the truck shot. I’ve never been more scared and excited about the same moment. Naturally, we practiced this before the actual event. And just as naturally, the truck ended up going significantly faster in the actual event than it did in practice. Truck hit ball. Ball hit staff. Staff hit ground. Ball hit truck. Ball hit fallen staff. Truck bumper comes to rest within reach of staff. Silence ensues. Staff member A makes a noise and moves. Staff member B responds with noise and movement of his own. Hilarity ensues because, after all, any time something so incredibly stupid happens and no one gets seriously injured, it instantaneously achieves the highest standard of humor.
Don’t worry though, Staff member A went down the slip-n-slide the next day, got his pinky caught in a small tear on the billboards being used as the slick surface for sliding, and broke a bone in his hand. When I later pointed out the obvious that he got hit by a truck without any problems yet let his pinky send him to the hospital, I asked if he told the doctor he’d been hit by a truck. “No. Are you kidding? That didn’t come up.”
Tune in next time as we transition from the physical to the intellectual side of the TCC 2010 Story Vault.
7.26.2010
Ever Checked Your Shoes for Poo in a Carpeted Building?
If you took 2-inch by 4-inch stickers off of plastic boxes about 20 times a day, what would you do with them?
If you answered a question with a question, I’m right there with you… You’re wondering if they are recyclable and if this is a trap question to determine if you are truly green in an age where it is cool to worry about the future of the planet. Well, I don’t know if they’re recyclable. Nor do I care.
The right answer is “Well, Loren, I would probably wad them up into a ball. But not a new ball everyday… No, I’m thinking I’d wad them into the same ball. Every day. For five years.
So I spent last week in Tampa for work. We were looking at the warehousing for a couple of hospitals down there. It was on this trip that I met Baby. Baby is the afore-referenced ball of packing stickers. How many packing stickers would you have assembled, in pounds of course? Well, you’d weigh in at a smidge under 300. Pounds, of course. Naturally, you’d want to put eyes and lips on Baby, and occasionally dress her up.
What else happened in Tampa? Good question. You just got your participation points for the week. Let me tell you what else happened in Tampa… We got sabotaged. While my creativity rots away in a cubicle from 8 to 5, even in my imagination’s prime, I couldn’t have made up the following…
I had just badged back in from the bathroom. Yes, badged in. As I walked into our conference room that we were working in for the week, a coworker immediately asked “Do you smell that?” It was at that precise second that I could and did respond with “I do now… What is that?” “I don’t know. I just saw a guy walk by and spray something in here.”
That something must have been the intestinal lining of fourteen cows and the melted glass from twenty-three thousand used rectal thermometers, in aerosol form. I have smelled something similar before… In your effort to learn more about me, you’ll be excited to know that I used to work in a fireworks warehouse. It was there that I was introduced to the Wild Geese Rocket.
Fireworks come from… brace yourself… China. Apparently, cardboard, paper, and urine are the preferred packing products. After a trip across an ocean and 2,000 miles of non-ocean, the cardboard really starts to smell. Don’t worry, the urine doesn’t smell at that point.
Anyway, it smelled [insert your preferred synonym for dreadful here]. We marveled at the odor for a while, which I believe to be analogous to watching a school bus teeter on the edge of a cliff, with nothing but a herd of helpless sheep below. Then we began to look for a solution. People who work in the areas around our conference room began to wander in just to see if it really smelled as bad as they had heard. No one left disappointed.
The guy we were working with most of the time came in and immediately told us to evacuate. Done. So, we’re hanging out in the hallway when he decides to begin the manhunt. Blue shirt, white tie. Look out.
Everyone at the facility has their picture up on the wall… Well, everyone except for the prime suspect. Facility guy comes to us, picture in hand, “Is this him?” Coworker, “I didn’t get a good look at him. I just saw the back of his head.” As I wonder how this guy got profiled as the assailant, facility guy explains, “He has a history of doing stuff like this.” I really want to know what you have to do to get the kind of reputation where you are immediately accused of stinkbombing a room full of strangers in a professional environment.
Regardless, Febreeze and Lysol started coming from various locations and the fumigation began. There’s really no elegant way to go into your office and come out with a can of Lysol. Still, it worked for the most part. A couple of hours later, all that was left was a potential blog post. You can thank public enemy number 2.
If you answered a question with a question, I’m right there with you… You’re wondering if they are recyclable and if this is a trap question to determine if you are truly green in an age where it is cool to worry about the future of the planet. Well, I don’t know if they’re recyclable. Nor do I care.
The right answer is “Well, Loren, I would probably wad them up into a ball. But not a new ball everyday… No, I’m thinking I’d wad them into the same ball. Every day. For five years.
So I spent last week in Tampa for work. We were looking at the warehousing for a couple of hospitals down there. It was on this trip that I met Baby. Baby is the afore-referenced ball of packing stickers. How many packing stickers would you have assembled, in pounds of course? Well, you’d weigh in at a smidge under 300. Pounds, of course. Naturally, you’d want to put eyes and lips on Baby, and occasionally dress her up.
What else happened in Tampa? Good question. You just got your participation points for the week. Let me tell you what else happened in Tampa… We got sabotaged. While my creativity rots away in a cubicle from 8 to 5, even in my imagination’s prime, I couldn’t have made up the following…
I had just badged back in from the bathroom. Yes, badged in. As I walked into our conference room that we were working in for the week, a coworker immediately asked “Do you smell that?” It was at that precise second that I could and did respond with “I do now… What is that?” “I don’t know. I just saw a guy walk by and spray something in here.”
That something must have been the intestinal lining of fourteen cows and the melted glass from twenty-three thousand used rectal thermometers, in aerosol form. I have smelled something similar before… In your effort to learn more about me, you’ll be excited to know that I used to work in a fireworks warehouse. It was there that I was introduced to the Wild Geese Rocket.
Fireworks come from… brace yourself… China. Apparently, cardboard, paper, and urine are the preferred packing products. After a trip across an ocean and 2,000 miles of non-ocean, the cardboard really starts to smell. Don’t worry, the urine doesn’t smell at that point.
Anyway, it smelled [insert your preferred synonym for dreadful here]. We marveled at the odor for a while, which I believe to be analogous to watching a school bus teeter on the edge of a cliff, with nothing but a herd of helpless sheep below. Then we began to look for a solution. People who work in the areas around our conference room began to wander in just to see if it really smelled as bad as they had heard. No one left disappointed.
The guy we were working with most of the time came in and immediately told us to evacuate. Done. So, we’re hanging out in the hallway when he decides to begin the manhunt. Blue shirt, white tie. Look out.
Everyone at the facility has their picture up on the wall… Well, everyone except for the prime suspect. Facility guy comes to us, picture in hand, “Is this him?” Coworker, “I didn’t get a good look at him. I just saw the back of his head.” As I wonder how this guy got profiled as the assailant, facility guy explains, “He has a history of doing stuff like this.” I really want to know what you have to do to get the kind of reputation where you are immediately accused of stinkbombing a room full of strangers in a professional environment.
Regardless, Febreeze and Lysol started coming from various locations and the fumigation began. There’s really no elegant way to go into your office and come out with a can of Lysol. Still, it worked for the most part. A couple of hours later, all that was left was a potential blog post. You can thank public enemy number 2.
7.17.2010
Hit the Deck
Why the delay and random Independence post to break up the housing saga? Mostly because I didn't want to jinx it... I believe my house-hunting to be over.
In preparation for trip 3, Rea sent me a few more listings. I picked out one that was quite near the parents’ house. As I wanted to live a little more in the East Nashville area, so I RealTrac-ed anything in the area with 2 bathrooms. This is mainly so I can have one bathroom that appears clean for visitors without having to actually clean it. Found one with potential. Trip 3 was set – 2 houses.
So, Mom had been asking to join me in the house viewings. She said she didn’t want to go to give me her opinion, she just liked looking at houses. Trip 1 occurred at the same time as a family dinner that no one told me about until 24 hours before. As such, Mom had alternate plans. She didn’t make it to trip 2 either, so trip 3 was her first time out.
I told Mom I’d pick her up after work. As I get to the parents’, Dad informs me he’s decided to ride along for the house that is near to them. A family outing has been formed. So we roll up to house 7 to see Rea talking to the homeowner. Homeowner pulls out of the driveway as we get out of the car. This will become slightly less unimportant shortly.
I introduce Rea to the parents and vice versa. Let the house viewing begin.
House 7: Located on a riding mower sized lot. Pro. We open the door and are immediately met with a new objective: find the cat that’s been smoking a pack a day. Con. Why did we care earlier that Rea had been talking to the homeowner? Because it was during that conversation that homeowner informed Rea that the wood in the first room we walked into was formerly used at a Captain D’s run by his wife’s ex-husband. Let that sink in. Not only is fish-grease-soaked wood a selling point, but the guy went through his wife’s ex to get the fish-grease-soaked wood. That’s pretty much all I remember about house 7. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Double Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
After I have made my way through house 7, Mom comments, “Wow. You went through that really quickly.” Rea, “Yeah, usually I have to schedule an hour to show a house. For Loren, it’s more like 15 minutes.” Turns out, I can tell if I like something almost as quickly as I can tell if I don’t like it. Mind you, I have seen plenty of places I didn’t like in this process. God made home inspectors to find the flaws. So, Rea and I make small talk as Mom and Dad roam around house 7, making up for my sub-par walk-through.
House 8: After Dad says peace out, we’re back in Inglewood, where the slogan is “It’s where we want to live.” Catchy. We park on the street. Primarily because there is no driveway. Good start. We walk the 45 yards of new deck to get to the door. And by new deck, I mean enormous monstrosity that the seller appears to have built himself. Good news, if a strong wind blows through, it will take care of tearing down the 6 foot fortress. Either that or I’m hiring some Israelites with trumpets for 7 days.
As we enter, Rea tells us the house has been staged. For those of you who haven’t watched as much HGTV as I have, that means, someone has strategically arranged the furniture in order to create an atmosphere that encourages home-buying. This would become very apparent when we walked into the master bedroom to discover a cute breakfast in bed tray. These are the kind of personal touches that really make me feel like I could live in one of these places. Overall, nice place. Pretty much all carpet, lots of green, and an enormous mirror that could replace the moon in a pinch. Outside of the “improvements” the guy made on the house, I like it. I kind of wish Noah would have consulted me prior to building his ark outside, but I guess the rest made up for it.
To make an incredibly long story short, after potentially acquiring Tetanus, West Nile, and two strings of Emphysema and seeing one naked person scurrying around, we commence to make you jump. Jump. Nevermind. That was Kris Kross. We, in actuality, commenced the offer/counter-offer process on House 8. Whew.
Thanks for following my soap opera. If you're not some sketchy blog-hopper, stop by the house sometime... There's a clean bathroom if you need it.
In preparation for trip 3, Rea sent me a few more listings. I picked out one that was quite near the parents’ house. As I wanted to live a little more in the East Nashville area, so I RealTrac-ed anything in the area with 2 bathrooms. This is mainly so I can have one bathroom that appears clean for visitors without having to actually clean it. Found one with potential. Trip 3 was set – 2 houses.
So, Mom had been asking to join me in the house viewings. She said she didn’t want to go to give me her opinion, she just liked looking at houses. Trip 1 occurred at the same time as a family dinner that no one told me about until 24 hours before. As such, Mom had alternate plans. She didn’t make it to trip 2 either, so trip 3 was her first time out.
I told Mom I’d pick her up after work. As I get to the parents’, Dad informs me he’s decided to ride along for the house that is near to them. A family outing has been formed. So we roll up to house 7 to see Rea talking to the homeowner. Homeowner pulls out of the driveway as we get out of the car. This will become slightly less unimportant shortly.
I introduce Rea to the parents and vice versa. Let the house viewing begin.
House 7: Located on a riding mower sized lot. Pro. We open the door and are immediately met with a new objective: find the cat that’s been smoking a pack a day. Con. Why did we care earlier that Rea had been talking to the homeowner? Because it was during that conversation that homeowner informed Rea that the wood in the first room we walked into was formerly used at a Captain D’s run by his wife’s ex-husband. Let that sink in. Not only is fish-grease-soaked wood a selling point, but the guy went through his wife’s ex to get the fish-grease-soaked wood. That’s pretty much all I remember about house 7. Potential diseases acquired: Tetanus, West Nile, Double Emphysema. Naked people seen: 1.
After I have made my way through house 7, Mom comments, “Wow. You went through that really quickly.” Rea, “Yeah, usually I have to schedule an hour to show a house. For Loren, it’s more like 15 minutes.” Turns out, I can tell if I like something almost as quickly as I can tell if I don’t like it. Mind you, I have seen plenty of places I didn’t like in this process. God made home inspectors to find the flaws. So, Rea and I make small talk as Mom and Dad roam around house 7, making up for my sub-par walk-through.
House 8: After Dad says peace out, we’re back in Inglewood, where the slogan is “It’s where we want to live.” Catchy. We park on the street. Primarily because there is no driveway. Good start. We walk the 45 yards of new deck to get to the door. And by new deck, I mean enormous monstrosity that the seller appears to have built himself. Good news, if a strong wind blows through, it will take care of tearing down the 6 foot fortress. Either that or I’m hiring some Israelites with trumpets for 7 days.
As we enter, Rea tells us the house has been staged. For those of you who haven’t watched as much HGTV as I have, that means, someone has strategically arranged the furniture in order to create an atmosphere that encourages home-buying. This would become very apparent when we walked into the master bedroom to discover a cute breakfast in bed tray. These are the kind of personal touches that really make me feel like I could live in one of these places. Overall, nice place. Pretty much all carpet, lots of green, and an enormous mirror that could replace the moon in a pinch. Outside of the “improvements” the guy made on the house, I like it. I kind of wish Noah would have consulted me prior to building his ark outside, but I guess the rest made up for it.
To make an incredibly long story short, after potentially acquiring Tetanus, West Nile, and two strings of Emphysema and seeing one naked person scurrying around, we commence to make you jump. Jump. Nevermind. That was Kris Kross. We, in actuality, commenced the offer/counter-offer process on House 8. Whew.
Thanks for following my soap opera. If you're not some sketchy blog-hopper, stop by the house sometime... There's a clean bathroom if you need it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)