Size DOES Matter!

We've all heard the saying "size doesn't matter." Well, I completely disagree.

Especially when we're talking about hand towels.

We've all had it happen. You go to the bathroom, wash your hands, then dry your hands on the hand towel. Everything's fine. Until the next time you have to go to the bathroom. Once again you take care of your business, and then you wash your hands. But this time, when you go to dry your hands on the hand towel you find that the hand towel is still damp from the last time you dried your hands on it. It's hard to get your hands dry using a towel that's already wet.

Or, worse yet, you haven't been to the bathroom for hours, but it just so happens you have to go fifteen minutes after Uncle Stinky has gone. ("Uncle Stinky" is not his real name. But it probably should be.) You wash your hands and reach for the hand towel, but it is moist. Very moist indeed. You try to find a dry spot on the hand towel, but to no avail. And the worst part is, that's not your moistness on that towel. That's Uncle Stinky's moistness!

(Of course, if we're being honest here, the moistness level of the hand towel might be the least of your worries if you have to use the bathroom after Uncle Stinky. But that's a topic for another day.)

They call it a hand towel for a reason. It's barely big enough to dry your hand.

I understand the concept of the hand towel. It's just fine for drying your hands. Once. But, if you have to make several bathroom visits in a short amount of time (curse you, diarrhea!) or if you have multiple people using the same bathroom (and thus the same hand towel) in a short amount of time, the size of the hand towel really does matter.

Here's a standard size hand towel versus a standard size regular towel.
Yes, size does matter!

In my own bathroom, I've taken care of this problem. On my large towel rack I have two towels: 1) My very large bath towel; and B) My very large hand towel (which is the exact same size as my very large bath towel.) So, no matter how frequently I use my hand towel, I can always find a spot on it devoid of moistness so I can dry my hands with a dry towel.

Unfortunately, this doesn't work for all bathrooms, because most of the time hand towels have a wimpy little round towel-holder or towel rack too small to handle a large towel. If you try to put a regular size towel on one of these wimpy hand-towel holders, you'll get something like this:

The standard size towel on the wimpy hand-towel rack. The towel hangs down into the sink.

So, what is the solution? Well, it depends on the bathroom. But what I would do is have as many towel racks and towel hooks as possible in every bathroom, with a full-sized towel on every rack and hook.

Every towel you add increases the chances of finding one that's not damp.

Is it aesthetically pleasing? No. Is it practical? No. Does it look pretty stupid? Yes.

But sometimes you do whatever you can to avoid Uncle Stinky's Moistness!

Drive-Thru Creeper

I wasn't expecting a conversation at the first window.

It had been a hectic day, and I was rushing for lunch. I had planned on making a nice, healthy lunch for The Boy (my 5 year-old) and I. Probably some grilled salmon with asparagus and sliced pomegranate. (Or something.) Instead, our errands got out of hand and I found myself pulling up to the drive-thru ordering speaker of a local fast food establishment. (I don't want to shed a bad light on the place, so for the sake of anonymity I'll call it "McFastFood's.")

Most drive-thru conversations take place at the ordering speaker. And these aren't exactly "conversations," they're mostly recitations of familiar phrases like:
"Would you like any fries with that?"
"Can I super-size that for you?"
And, "Please pull forward to the first window."

I placed my order and was told to move ahead to the first window. (They didn't have grilled salmon, so I settled for a Filet o' Fish.) As I pulled around there was a car ahead of me at the first window. I waited my turn, then pulled up to the window.

I took out my credit card and reached it toward the window when the McFastFood's employee broke the unwritten rules of the Customer/Drive-thru Employee Interaction Contract: he said something that differed from the standard script.

As I reached my credit card toward him, he said, "Why is it that all the cute girls pay with a credit card?"

I was a bit befuddled. I was paying with a credit card. Did he think I was a cute girl? And if so, how offended should I be? Or how flattered should I be? (Because, if he thought I was a girl, at least he thought I was a cute girl.)

I wasn't sure how to respond, so I think I said something extremely insightful, like "Uhhh...."

He took my card to process it, then continued, "I wish they would pay with cash." I didn't respond, but I was a bit relieved. When he said "they" it meant that he wasn't lumping me in with the cute girls.

The conversation was pretty one-sided. He had something he wanted to say, and I was the one there for him to say it to. For my part, he had piqued my interest. I was a bit curious to see what exactly he was talking about.

As he processed my card, he went on. "When they pay with cash, I get to hold their hands a little bit when I give them their change. I just want the chance to hold a cute girl's hand. But I don't get to hold their hand when they pay with a credit card! I wish the cute girls didn't always pay with credit cards!"

Okay, that was a bit creepy.  It's like I was seeing a bad guy from an episode of Criminal Minds in his earliest stages: It started out with him holding hands with unwitting girls as he gave them change at the drive-thru, then before you knew it he was keeping girls locked up against their will in his shed out back.

I was just expecting to pay at the first window, not get a glimpse inside the mind of a serial killer.

Having finished telling me his woes, he handed me back my card. I felt like I should say something, so I shook my head and told him, "I don't know what to tell you, dude." (I don't often use the word "dude," but for some reason it seemed appropriate. For once, I was actually talking to someone who was more nerdy than me.)

I pulled forward to the second window, feeling fortunate to know that the Drive-Thru Creeper didn't have a hand in actually preparing my food.

Looking back now, I'm probably being a little hard on the Drive-Thru Creeper. He's probably just a lonely nerd who hasn't had much luck with the ladies. Believe me, I understand. Been there, done that.

But, there are better ways to meet women than grabbing at their hands while giving them change at the drive-thru window.

And as far as you cute girls are concerned, I'm not sure what to tell you. I'd say always pay with credit card so Drive-Thru Creeper can't fondle your hands when giving you change, but credit card fraud is always a danger, too. Maybe your best bet is to avoid the drive-thru altogether, stay home, and have some grilled salmon. (It's healthier, anyway.)

Having Fun Just Got Serious!

I like to write.

I like to make people laugh. (Or giggle.) (Or snicker.) (Or smirk.) (Or smile.) (Or maybe just shake their head in disbelief.) I have a lot of fun writing. I really enjoy it.

For most of my adult life, whenever anyone has asked questions like "What would you like to do for a living?" or "What do you want to do with your life?" or "If you could do anything, what would it be?" my answer would be, "I'd like to be a writer." (Or a shooting guard for the Utah Jazz. But I think the ship has sailed on that one.)

Well, guess what? That time is now. I am now, officially a writer!

You might ask, what exactly does that mean? Well, you've heard the expression "don't quit your day job?" Too late. Because I just did quit my day job! (And I've got to tell you, it felt pretty darn good to quit my day job!)(Pretty scary, too.)

Let me explain 'zactly how this happened.

I'd been working at the same job for a little over eight years. My job consisted mostly of driving semi-trailers around a parking lot all day. I backed in and pulled out trailers to be loaded and/or unloaded at a large frozen food manufacturing/warehouse facility. It wasn't a very complicated job. It wasn't a very gratifying job. It wasn't even a very well-paying job. It was just a job.

It was a job with a pretty lousy work schedule. On the plus side, I only worked four ten-hour shifts a week. On the negative side, those four ten-hour shifts were at some horrendous times of the day. I would work two days a week from 4:00 AM until 2:00 PM, and I would work two other days from 4:00 PM until 2:00 AM.

Wrap your head around that for a minute:
          Two days a week: At work at 4:00 AM (alarm goes off at 2:35 AM!)
                                        Off work at 2:00 PM.
          Two other days a week: At work at 4:00 PM
                                                 Off work at 2:00 AM (get home and go to bed around 3:00 AM!)

Whenever people would learn my work schedule, they would always ask, "How do you work that schedule? When do you sleep?" It was a valid question. Mostly, I would sleep whenever I was awake. Or, when I was supposed to be awake. Any time I would sit in a chair there was a good chance I would doze off.

After eight years of that schedule, I was pretty much a walking zombie.

So, after a few particularly crappy nights at work, The Wife was tired of seeing my zombification, and she came to me with an idea. She proposed that I quit my job and try my hand at writing full time. (We have just enough money in savings to let us give this a try for a limited amount of time.)

I was shocked, surprised, and very excited by The Wife's idea. (The Wife is awesome and fantastic, by the way. She is the bestest!!!) It's definitely one of those, "It's kind of crazy, but it just might work" ideas.

So, here I am. A writer.

A very serious writer.

I've been posting on this blog, at slowjoe40.blogspot.com for a few years now, writing about my life as a 40 year old virgin, and my life as a father of three. (And any other funny thing that might come to my slightly demented mind.) But, I've done so pretty sporadically. No more. I will now be posting a blog update twice a week, every Tuesday and every Friday. (I'm also going to be working on writing other things, including a book.)

If I'm doing my job right, you should like my writing. And if you like my writing, what I ask of you is to "like" my writing. "Share" it. Pass it on to others. I will be posting most everything I write at my Slow Joe 40 page on Facebook. The more likes and shares and followers that I can get, the less likely I'll have to go back to setting my alarm for 2:35 AM so I can drive trucks around a parking lot again.

I'm looking forward to this! This is going to be fun. Because having fun just got serious!!!

Sick and Tired

I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.

Don't you think they should make things easier for sick people? Yes, they should. But, they don't. They definitely don't. (Who are the "they" that I'm speaking of? I'm not really sure, but I think "they" know who "they" are.)

I'll tell you what I'm talking about. I got sick a couple of weeks ago. It was the usual cold symptoms: runny nose, cough, fatigue, sore throat, general feeling of "blah." So, I did what millions of Americans do when they get sick: I whined to my wife.

But then, it was time to do something about it. So, it was off to the store to get some cold medicine. My main go-to medicine when I get sick is DayQuil. Almost. Because I am a cheapskate, instead of purchasing DayQuil, I bought the store brand generic equivalent.

DayQuil (and its store brand generic equivalent) comes in two forms: pill or liquid. I buy the liquid. The Wife makes fun of me because I won't try the pill form, but have you seen the size of those things? They say "size doesn't matter," but I tend to disagree. Those pills are huge! I've already got a sore throat, and they want me to force that giant orange pill down my gullet? That pill is the size of a Twinkie! My kids have toy footballs that are smaller than that pill!

No, I choose the liquid. I can at least get that down past my sore throat. Probably.

Probably? Yes, because first I have to get the package open. I attempted to open the store brand generic equivalent of DayQuil, but there was a plastic safety seal around the top of the bottle. I tried to take it off. There were perforations where I was supposed to be able to tear it off. I still couldn't. (Remember, at this point I am a sick and feeble person. The plastic was winning.)

Eventually I had to grab some fingernail clippers and use the file part to rip at the perforation until I was finally able to get the plastic safety seal off. So, I took the plastic dosage cup off of the top, then removed the lid to get to my liquid elixir, but, of course, there was another safety seal on the top of the bottle.

Sometimes the safety seals on the top of bottles have a large flap on top to make it easier to remove the seal. This one did not. Sometimes the safety seals on the top of bottles have three small flaps on the edge that make it slightly easier to remove the seal. This one did not.

So, I was left to use the file from my fingernail clippers again, this time to puncture the safety seal. Of course, then I had to dig into the bottle to grasp the seal so I could remove it from the top of the bottle. In order to get the seal out, I had to submerge my finger a bit into the medicine. (I don't think they recommend that.)

Finally, I could pour my store brand generic equivalent of DayQuil into the dosage cup that comes on the top of the bottle! So that's what I did. And that's when I learned why sometimes it's better to pay a bit more for the actual brand name. The dosage cup had a hole in the bottom of it, so as I poured out the medicine, sticky orange goop oozed all over my bathroom countertop. (I realize now that I probably cracked the dosage cup while struggling to get the first plastic seal off.)

And yes, while I was attempting to get some actual medicine in me, I was sick, tired and more than a bit cranky. And by the time I did get some medicine in me, I was sicker, more tired, and a whole lot crankier.

Unfortunately, two weeks later I was still sick, so I eventually ended up going to the doctor. He diagnosed bronchitis, and gave me a subscription prescription for an inhaler to use when I am having a coughing fit. So, I went to the pharmacy, picked up my subscription prescription, and brought it home. (And why is the pharmacy always at the back of the store? Do they need to make sure the sick people walk as far as possible?)

I had never used an inhaler before, so I needed to look at the instructions. I pulled the little paper with the instructions on it out of the box, unfolded it, and this is what I saw:

Yes, it is all in English! And so is the other side!

The "small" folded paper that came with the medicine was eight folds high and three folds wide. (That's 24 fold sections.) And, the other side was just as full of "important information." (That's 48 total fold sections!) And yes, it's all in English. I counted the words in one of the average fold sections, and there were 200 words. Multiply those 200 words by the 48 fold sections, and that's 9,600 total words!

My gosh, that's as many words as a Tom Clancy novel!!! Do they actually expect a sick person to read all of that before taking the medicine? Really!?! I'm sick, dagnabbit!!! I'm having coughing fits! I can barely focus, and they want me to read The Da Vinci Code?

I just wanted to figure out how to use the inhaler. And drink my sticky orange medicine goop. Why must they make it so hard?

Maybe it's a ploy by the pharmaceutical industry. They already have you sick, so they are trying to keep you sick so you will continue to purchase their medicines that you are unable to open and/or confused as to how to use properly. The longer they keep you sick, the more of their products you will buy.

It seems to be working. Because I'm still sick and tired. And I'm still sick and tired of being sick and tired.

The Phone's Ringing! Answer It!

Ring!  Ring!

The phone is ringing! I must go answer it!

Eating dinner? Let me put this fork down, 'cause I gotta answer that phone!

In the middle of changing a diaper? Slap something on that baby fast, 'cause I gotta answer that phone!

Just stepping out of the shower? Grab a towel and run, 'cause I gotta answer that phone!

Castle and Beckett are about to catch the killer? That's what the pause button is for, 'cause I gotta answer that phone!

In the middle of an actual conversation with an actual person? They can wait, 'cause I gotta answer that phone!

Answer it!!!

This is one area where The Wife and I have a definite difference of philosophy. Where I jump and run to answer it whenever the phone rings, The Wife ignores it and acts indifferent. "I have a phone for my convenience, not anyone else's," is what she says. She says that if the call is important enough, they will leave a message, or they will try to call again.

The Wife feels the phone is not always and not often more important than whatever else she may be doing at that moment. (This includes when she is playing Angry Birds.) Since the vast majority of calls we get are from telemarketers, this approach seems sensible and probably even logical.

But, it's not for me.

You see, when I hear the phone ring, I feel a compulsion to drop everything and answer that phone. You never know, it could be important. I gotta, gotta, gotta answer it!!!

It could be the Vikings calling to offer me a spot as a starting linebacker!

It could be the lottery commission telling me I've won the lottery, even though I've never bought a ticket!

It could be JJ Abrams offering me the role of Spock's brother for the next Star Trek movie!

It could be the Vikings offering me the head coaching job! (Couldn't be worse than Brad Childress.)

It could be Pete's Pork Palace offering me a lifetime supply of free bacon!

It could be Billy Joel, Jeff Lynne, Elton John, Steve Perry, Tom Petty, and Neil Diamond offering me a spot in their new supergroup the Traveling Abernathy's.

Or, you know, it could be a telemarketer. Actually, it probably is a telemarketer.

For all my running and wishing and hoping, about 90% of the calls that come in to the home phone are telemarketers. (The Vikings haven't called once!) (Not even their telemarketing department.) So, I run to answer the phone, dreaming of what it could be, but knowing what it probably will be.

We wouldn't even have a home phone if not for me. When we moved in to the house, The Wife suggested we just use our cell phones. But, I'm old school (or maybe just old), so I thought it might be important to still have a home phone. And, it turns out the home phone is important to have, because without it I wouldn't be up on the latest in telemarketer strategies.

The latest tactic the telemarketers use is having a recording try to pretend it is carrying out a conversation with you. It goes something like this:

TELEMARKETER RECORDING: "Hello, how are you today?" Pause.

PERSON ANSWERING THE PHONE: "Fine." Or some such thing.

TELEMARKETING RECORDING: "That's great to hear! I'm calling because I have an important blah blah blah…."

PERSON ANSWERING PHONE: (Realizes it is a recording. Hangs up.)

It's that initial attempt at conversation and pause that makes people think, ever so briefly, that they are talking to a person and not a recording. I'm not sure who they think they are fooling, because soon enough it becomes obvious that it is a recording. The next time I get one of these calls, it will go something like this:

TELEMARKETER RECORDING: "Hello, how are you today?" Pause.

ME: "Well, I've stabbed myself in the foot with a fork, and blood is getting all over my carpet!"

TELEMARKETER RECORDING: "That's great to hear! I'm calling to blah, blah, blah…."

Obviously, The Wife isn't missing much when she doesn't answer these calls. And, quite frankly, she isn't missing much when she doesn't answer any of the calls. She's right, if it's important they can just leave a message. (To be fair, I should point out that The Wife does answer the phone when our kids are at school, just in case the call is about them.)(Because the importance of the kids outweighs the annoyance of the telemarketers.)

So, I should probably adopt The Wife's attitude to phone calls, shouldn't I?

Ring!

I should just not pay any heed to the ringing of the phone.

Ring!

It will go to voice mail. They can leave a message.

Ring!

It's probably just a telemarketer, right?

Ring!

But then again, the Vikings could be in need of a backup quarterback!

Ri.."Hello?"

Less Miserable

A while back I had the kids in the car with me and we were driving through the thriving metropolis of Payson, Utah. We were stopped at one of the many traffic lights in town (by my count, there are nine!) when my six-year old daughter Roni saw something out the car window that puzzled and upset her.

She said, "What is that? I don't know what that is. I don't like that."

I replied, "What, Roni? What are you talking about?"

"That," she said. "That over there. 'Less Miserables.' What does that mean?"

We were passing an old, closed down movie theater. On the marquee of the theater was a notice about a performance by the Payson Community Theatre of the play Les Miserables.

The Payson Community Theater thanks you for your patronage!

I decided to try to take a peak into Roni's imaginative mind. "What do you think it means?"

"Less Miserables," she repeated, trying to formulate her thoughts. "Well, I think that's a place where people who are miserable go, and after they go there, they are a little less miserable."

"Less miserable, huh?" I said. "Sounds to me like being less miserable would be a good thing."

"Yes," she replied, "but I still don't think I like it much. I don't want to be around miserable."

I then explained to her that Les Miserables (pronounced by me in a really bad, over-exaggerated French accent) was a play that her mama really likes, and that someday she, too, would probably really like it, as well. (It is, after all, much like Frozen, except with more incarceration, prostitution, and revolution.) (Okay, so they're not very much like each other, but they do both have lots of songs in them.)

Roni was appeased by my explanation. She likes shows. Someday she'll go see Les Miserables and quite like it. 

I really enjoy the time I get to spend with my kids. It's times like these that they make me smile, and I find myself being less and less miserable.

Can't You See I'm Holding a Baby Here!?!

Women and men are different. (Yes, another obvious statement from the files of Mister Duh.)

My wife and I recently had a baby. (And when I say "my wife and I had a baby" I mean "my wife had a baby and I stood around trying to not get in the way.")

Over the past few weeks, I've been amazed to see all of the things my wife can accomplish while holding the baby. With the baby in one arm and/or attached to her chest, my wife can:
     Change the baby's diaper.
     Change the baby's clothes.
     Feed the baby.
     Plan next week's menu.
     Cook dinner.
     Chop broccoli.
     Stir soup.
     Take pictures of the baby and post them on Facebook.
     Shop on Amazon.com. (Mostly for diapers, baby clothes, car seats and such.)
     Help the six-year-old with her homework.
     Read books with the four-year-old.
     Pin things on Pinterest.
     Grade tests. (She's a math teacher.)
     Throw things at the cat to stop it from scratching the couch.
     Play Candy Crush.
     Make blueberry muffins.
     Play the piano.
     Bake homemade bread.
     Pay the monthly bills.
     Put together a bookshelf.
     Bring home the bacon.
     Fry it up in a pan.

And that, of course, is just a partial list.

Meanwhile, here's a list of the things I can do while holding the baby:








     (That sound you hear is crickets chirping.)

In fairness to me, what do you expect me to do? Can't you see I'm holding a baby here!?!

(Actually, you probably can't see that I'm holding a baby here.) (Let's add "taking selfies" to the list of things I can't do while holding a baby.)

When confronted with the differences of what we can accomplish while holding the baby, my wife shrugs and dismisses it as, ""That's why I'm the Mama."

[Quick aside: I did a brief, unscientific Facebook poll to see if that word should be spelled "mama" or "momma." I learned that a few more people go with "mama," and that about half of my Facebook friends are smart-alecks who won't give a straight answer.]

She's right, of course. There are some things that mothers are just more adept at and better equipped to handle than fathers. I'm pretty good at rocking the baby to sleep. Of course, I usually end up rocking myself to sleep at the same time. (I call this "synergy.")

So, yes, women and men are just different. (Says Mister Duh.) Have you ever noticed how a woman can get out of the bath or shower, wrap a towel around herself, and do just about anything, up to and including carpentry and jumping jacks, without the towel falling off at all?

If a guy wraps a towel around himself and tries to do anything that uses both hands, it is guaranteed that within two minutes the towel will drop, exposing butt crack and/or naughty bits.

Meanwhile a woman can have a towel securely covering all of her chestal and crotchatic regions and have another towel wrapped around her hair, and neither towel will fall!!! It's as if the laws of gravity have been temporarily discontinued!

My wife says this is all because women are better than men at multi-tasking. I don't know about that. I am more than capable of doing lots and lots of different things. As long as I am able to do them one at a time. And who knows, given enough time and practice, maybe I can learn and grow.

Lookie here: a successful selfie while holding the baby! There may be hope for me yet!

So, I'll keep trying, and I'll keep getting better. Just so long as I don't drop the baby. (Or the towel.)