Air conditioning? Are you for reals???

As I type this at 10:30-ish Wednesday night, the weather in Minneapolis is a beautiful 60 degrees. Spring is finally here.

If you lived next door to me and opened your window, you'd feel a slight breeze that will pick up every once in a while and make my wind-chimes tinkle just enough not to be obnoxious (meaning: they aren't hurricane-force winds). The robins are out in full-force, pushing their red chests out as far as they can go while singing their little hearts out.

The air is free of bugs and fragrant with the scent of fresh lilacs and flowering crab apple trees in bloom. The grass is thick and green and inviting (well...except for the brown spots in our yard where Dexter has basically destroyed it...but that's a blog entry for another day...) and little bits of cotton have just started to float through the air.

On my way home from playing tennis with my friend Kelly, I saw a new family of geese waddling down the street, a herd of fuzzy yellow heads bobbing around delightfully at the fresh new world around them, while Mom and Pop honked nervously at them and to one another to keep them off the road.

It's such a beautiful, sparkling, new-car feeling compared to just a couple of weeks ago when Mother Nature was still considering throwing a good snow-storm at us for no other reason than she was in the mood to. It's so refreshing to take in all of the new smells and sounds that we've been without since last October.

Like my next-door neighbor's whirling central air conditioning unit.

Yep. It's a cool 60 degrees out, and Next-Door Nancy somehow finds it high time she got her Air Blaster 9000 up and running for the season. Granted, it was a hot day - I think it may have topped out around 75 at one point - but that's nothing. Next-Door Nancy's had this sucker whirring non-stop since the beginning of last week.

Now that I think about it, a couple of weeks ago when I was out trying to fill the dead grass spots in our yard (damn Wonderdog...), a repair man was on Nancy's patio working on it, and after he left she ran it full bore all night (trust me...it's right outside my bedroom window...).

Don't get me wrong - come July, I'm a lover of the central air just like the rest of the country...but to have it roaring non-stop on a night like tonight? I want to walk over, pound on her door and scream "Open a damn window, Next Door Nancy! You'll get a way better effect than your recycled air AND it won't cost you anything!" right into her face.

But maybe those wind chimes of mine get on her nerves...maybe I like them so much because they drown out all the whirring...

Ahhh, spring!

Apparently, the air is no longer "free"

Ever since I've been old enough to have a respectable sense of humor (basically, around the time I stopped telling "knock knock" jokes...), I've always thought it was insanely funny that gas stations would promote "free air" as an incentive for customers to use their station. Like anyone would be dumb enough to charge, let alone pay for, air.

Yesterday was the most glorious of days so far this spring. Mid-sixties, windy with plenty of sun. I decided that my first bike ride of the spring was long overdue, so I went to the garage to dust off the old Schwinn. Like I suspected, the tires were low, so I tossed it in the trunk and drove to the Oasis Market to top them off.

I pulled up to the air area, taking for granted what I was assuming would be a quick fill. No deal. Before I had a chance to even put the car in park, I noticed that this particular air cost 75 cents. And it was on a timer. Yeah, not only would I have to pay for the air for my tires, but I'd also have to fill them on a timed limit that wasn't listed. That was stress I absolutely did not need, plus I didn't have three quarters, so I peeled out of there lickity split.

Now, some of you know this, some of you don't, but I live in a suburb of Minneapolis that is considered to be a little hoity toity. Not so much where my roommates and I live, but the average price for a home is considerably higher than that of other suburbs; the logical thing to think would be "Well, of course, the gas stations charge for the air in Minnetonka. Can't they afford it with all of the money trees that line the boulevards in their posh little city?" *Snicker, snicker*

Here's where irony sets in.

While I live in Minnetonka, this particular gas station is located in Hopkins, which is about six blocks from our townhouse, and the area is much less than hoity toity - I wouldn't go as far as saying it's "trashy," but that's just because I don't want the people who hang out in front of the gas station to read this, track me down and beat the hell out of me.

For example, there's a small grocery store located next door which is called "EZ Foods." I'm pretty sure it's actually a front for the owners to sell drugs without being hassled by the cops because the place always smells like incense and all of their products (except for the dairy) are incredibly old. Oh yeah, and they sell hand blown glass "tobacco" pipes. Uh huh. Riiiiight.

Exhibit number two: next door to the grocery store is a liquor store called...wait for it..."Beers and Wines." No, I'm not joking. Nobody could make something that stupid up. And both stores have signs that look like they were painted by drunk 6th graders back in the mid-1960s.

So it was baffling that, in an area as noted above, the air cost 75 cents. Six blocks away, at a Holiday, the air was free and not on a timer. Stress-free and I saved money... if you don't count the gas I wasted driving around looking for "free air."

So here's the deal...

...I was officially promoted yesterday. FINALLY.

After almost two-and-a-half years in my current position, I've definitely put in my time. And, as several people can attest to, that's probably understating things quite considerably (and I'm an over-exaggerator by nature - go figure).

To sum it up, I'll say this: over the past 29 months I've dealt with my fair share of wanting to pull my hair out because of unsatisfying work situations that I had no control over - somehow I managed to hold off. It's a wonder that I don't have a raging drinking problem or outstanding assault charges from punching people in the face at random (trust me...there were times that both sounded more than appealing), but something told me to continue to bide my time and things would eventually pay off.

Starting May 1st, I will be a Producer for the cosmetics division. In a nutshell, I'll be responsible for creating effective on-air support and presentations for our viewers. Tell me, what little girl (and in some cases, little boy) didn't dream of getting to play with makeup all day long when she (or he) grew up?! This new position will definitely challenge me in all areas, but I'm more than ready for the opportunity I've been given. And I'm going to be working with a great group of people, which will make everything that much more rewarding. Imagine: actually waking up and wanting to go to work. What a new-fangled idea!

Onto bigger and better things! And bring on the free samples!

The fish poop thing

Since the last post was mainly about Nigel the British Fish, and the one before that was about poop, I figured I'd combine the two topics and come up with an intensely riveting blog about the crazy phenomena known only as "the fish poop thing."

If you've ever had a fish for a pet, you know what I'm referring to, but if you're a newbie on the subject, let me explain. When a fish poops, it comes out in long strings. And these strings don't separate quickly from their butts and fall to the bottom of the tank. Oh no, they have the honor of dragging their crap gracefully around behind them, like some beautifully twisted underwater version of Cirque du Soleil.

(Said in a thick, French accent) "Which way will the poop thing swing next? Nobody knows but watch as it catches the light! So charming! So beautiful!"

How disturbing. I don't even want to imagine if this sort of situation was a normal occurrence in the human world.

The worst part about the whole thing is probably when the fish runs into other fish and has to pretend like he doesn't even know his poop thing is there. I'm sure there's not a whole lot of eye contact going on when those sort of situations arise, kind of like when you run into someone in the grocery store and you have yet to shower that day - uncomfortable. I'm sure it's a great day when the poop thing finally separates and drifts to the bottom of the tank. Then the fish can go about his business and roll his eyes at all of his tank mates with poop things trailing behind them.

The debacle of naming a fish

In January, after several failed ice fishing attempts, I decided to head to Walmart to buy myself a new, water-based friend. I'm not exactly sure the reasoning behind this decision. In all honesty, it doesn't make sense, whatsoever. I go ice fishing to catch fish with every intension of eating what I reel in, but there's no way any fish I could've picked up at the pet department in Wally World would've been close to big enough to Shake and Bake.

On the way there, I knew exactly what kind of fish I would be getting: a Black Moor, which, in layman's terms, is a black, bubble-eyed goldfish with a fantail. It's really the best of both worlds: an easy fish that doesn't need a heated tank and looks prettier than your standard, everyday goldfish. I also knew that I wanted to name him Leo. Why? I have no idea. I just thought it was a great name for a fish.

As I headed home with Leo, I was excited. I had every intension of bringing him to work the following Monday because I'd read that having some sort of "easy" pet at the office was supposed to cut back on a person's stress. Little did I realize how "easy" Leo was going to be.

The second we got home, I realized my first mistake: I'd named him wrong. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. "How is that possible? You name your pet whatever the hell you feel like and that ends up being its name."

In my situation, this isn't the case. Let me explain. I've had great ideas on names for my last three pets, and they've all turned me down.

Dexter the Wonderdog was originally going to be called "Jack," but it just didn't fly with him. He just absolutely was not a Jack. My roommate, Shannon, and I finally came to an agreement that he could only be Dexter and from that moment, he's been nothing but.

Then came the Jack Russell terrier I adopted in college, who I initially dubbed "J.R." (as in "Jack Russell"). Again, it didn't work out...because it turned out his name was Zeus.

So along comes Leo...who, as it turns out, is actually called Nigel. Oh, and did I mention he's British? Great. Now I sound completely insane. All I ask is that you hear me out on my rationalization with all of this.

With every animal I've had in the last few years, I've personally come up with a name for it that I thought was brilliant. When I finally have the pet, I study it long and hard and, as it turns out, the name I had picked out for it just hasn't been right. Finally, the correct name just dawns on me, as if I've suddenly had an epiphany. Which is why Dexter isn't Jack; Zeus isn't J.R.; and Nigel isn't Leo. It is what it is, and it just can't be helped.

Maybe it's some kind of "Animal Whisper" gift that I hold. Or maybe I'm schizo. Whatever the case, at least I know my animals are correctly named, no matter how insane the rationale may be.

Dropping one at work

*Disclaimer: the following subject matter is in regards to poop. No kidding. If you don't want to read about poop, I highly suggest you discontinue reading at this point. Consider yourself warned.* - bmo

Dropping the kids off at the pool. Baking brownies. Making a deposit. All great euphemisms for one of the most natural processes of the human body. Everyone does it, some more than others (yes, Gentlemen...even girls play at the Toilet Bowl, whether or not you want to believe it). Albeit being so natural, I have one question: what's the deal with people stinking up the facilities at work? And I'm not talking about a hint in the air that makes a person look up in wonder and internally say "eww;" but the kind of moment where you suddenly realize the Air Quality Index has plummeted to an all-time low and people better be evacuated before the company ends up as a live-stream on CNN.com with the caption "Gas Tragedy in the Midwest" in bold, red letters.

Don't get me wrong - when you gotta go, you gotta go and sometimes there just ain't no stoppin' it. It could be due to one cup of coffee too many or a Friday morning case of Beer Gut (no doubt instigated by the "fantastic" Thirsty Thursday 50 cent tap special that was a brilliant idea at the time, but not so much at 8AM the following morning). But as a S.W.P. (Seldom Work Pooper), I dread hitting up the facilities for my afternoon pee for the fear of being hit square in the face with a Stink Sandwich brought on by a F.W.P. (Frequent Work Pooper).

One of the most uncomfortable (but funny) work experiences I've ever had was stopping off at the bathroom with my officemate and having to part the Sewage Curtain in order to get in a pre-meeting pee. Granted, we laughed until we were gasping for air and practically crying, but I'm still not certain whether those two things had to do with the humor of the situation or the toxicity brought on by the invisible gas cloud that seemed to linger for days. My co-worker is still battling a case of severe Stink Eye brought on by that encounter. Thank God physical therapy is covered by our health insurance.

Therefore, for the courtesy of others, the following standards should apply whenever dropping one off at work:

1. Courtesy flush.
Granted, it's maybe not the most environmentally friendly thing to do, but once that nugget hits the water, the nicest thing you can do for your fellow co-worker is get rid of it and fast. The quicker the pipes devour it, the less time it has to pollute the shared air everyone entering the facilities has to deal with. And fewer fingers will point directly at you when you finally reemerge from your second office after a 10-minute personal meeting.

2. Air freshen away.
If you're a F.W.P. and there's nothing you can do about it, the nicest thing you can do would be to supply your Bathroom of Choice (B.C.) with a can of air freshener. No, you're not fooling anyone, but I'd rather believe that your poop carries a hint of Grandma's apple cobbler with it than that of a Porta-John located in the desert of New Mexico that hasn't been emptied for the entire summer. And don't even try to justify that your B.C. is equipped with a wall-mounted air freshener. We all know those don't work worth a...well, you know...

3. Find the Archives and make your safety deposit down there.
If you work for a moderately-sized corporation, chances are there's a bathroom somewhere in the building that doesn't see much traffic, for various reasons: it's out of the way, has unflattering lighting, isn't cleaned often or is located next to the most obnoxious co-worker of all time. Consider this a hidden treasure, as it's almost always guaranteed to be vacant, and what better environment for you to lay one down in than a place without interruption? Consider it a Zen-like place to do your duty. Another perk: you'll be stinking up Mr. Obnoxious's work space instead that of your treasured receptionist, Dottie.

4. Save your fiber for the afternoon
It's one thing to have a healthy colon, but do you really need that glass of prune juice at 9:00 every morning? Hold off until 3PM and it's less likely you'll need to throw one down while on the clock. You'll still be regular, but only you and your loved ones will have to deal with the after affects of your daily fiber fix.

-bmo

Blog #2

Two blogs in two days - so far, so good.

Last night, I went to bed at 9:00, which is pretty weird considering my standard is usually to stay up until around midnight. There were two reasons for my early departure:

1. I was exhausted. My weekend was rough (my bro's surprise party took a lot out of me). Partying until the wee hours of the morning is getting more difficult with each passing year.
2. I had to be up at 5am today.

People who know me well, know that I'm not one to get up any time before 8am unless there's a good reason for it. And even then it takes a lot. After some deliberation, I decided to start donating plasma. Today was my first visit, which meant I either had to go in at the butt crack of dawn or risk sitting in thick traffic after work. I chose the butt crack.

Everything went well; it's an interesting and thorough process. They even took a scan of my fingerprint, so I'm sure that's sitting in a database somewhere for the government to trace if I ever decide to go on a bank robbing rampage or something equally immoral and exciting. It's a small price to pay for the $20 in my pocket. Oh yeah, and I saved some lives.

Stay tuned.
-bmo

A season for change

After much thought and consideration, I've made the life altering decision to scratch my MySpace page and actually just have a blog again. Various reasons came into play with this decision, but the biggest factor was simply that I wasn't utilizing MySpace like I had originally planned.

There's something about winter turning into spring that always gives me the itch to make a move. Perhaps this little change with satisfy that hunger.

Stay tuned.