I carry my weight well

Estimated reading time: 1 minute, 48 seconds

"If you don't mind me asking . . ." said the guy who sits across from me at work. "But how much do you weigh?"

(For the split second after I heard the preface "If you don't mind me asking" my feeling was part fear, part excited anticipation. Anytime that statement precedes a question, the possibilities are endless. Have you ever shot someone in the face while hunting? How often would you say you are drunk at work?)

"If you forgive me for not answering, I'll forgive you for asking," I responded, turning my cheek and tilting my nose toward the ceiling.

Boo-yah! Take that! Asking me such a personal question. Shame on you! Shame on us all. I'm embarrassed for you, sir.

Actually I didn't really say that. It was a comeback Dear Abby advised a number of years ago to use when someone asks you a personal or embarrassing question. But I should have said it, not because I took offense to the question, but because it would have been quite humorous. As it turned out, I didn't mind providing an answer.

"205," I said.

"Really!?" he responded, with a bit more surprise in his voice than I had hoped. I questioned his reaction.

"Oh, it's just . . . you carry your weight well," he said.

This is something no one had ever said to me. I tried to figure out what this actually meant. I carry my weight well?

After some thought, I figured out that what he was really saying was that, by looking at me and my round face, he would have thought I weighed a lot more than 205. So rather than "you carry your weight well," he should have said "You know you're really not as obese as you look." Suddenly a euphemistic phrase turns into an emotionally-scarring insult.

But if I had to choose, carrying my weight well beats the alternative. I'd rather weigh 205 and appear to be 190 than to severely restrict my calories and exercise like mad to drop 15 pounds and actually weigh 190.

Because in the end, unless somebody asks (which apparently is not unheard of), no one really knows how much I weigh. If I look 190, I am 190.

Now bring on the chicken tenders.

More Assorted thoughts of no particular importance

Estimated reading time: 2 minute, 9 seconds

Haircuts and shampoo

It never fails.

I get a haircut, go about my day and then go to bed. The next morning I feel my hair and remember that I got haircut and am happy that I finally took the time to get the haircut after three shaggy weeks of nagging myself.

However, all recognition of the new haircut disappears in the shower. Ready to wash my hair, I squeeze out the same amount of shampoo as I had the day before. This is, of course, way too much shampoo as the length of my hair has been trimmed by 50 percent.

Ultimately I am left with an abundance of lather that I have no use for, some of which undoubtedly runs into my eyes.

Depressing

I bought a pocket-sized notebook to record assorted thoughts of no particular importance while I am away from a computer or larger portion of paper. However, the first thing I write in it is "Georgy Girl," which serves as a reminder that I'd really like to download the 1966 oldie-but-goodie by The Seekers. I then note how lame I am.

Dogs vs. Mailmen: Hatred Not A Myth

The fact that my dog barks at the mailman is not the issue. Even I have the desire – albeit suppressed – to nervously shout and alert others if a stranger steps onto my porch, whether they be from Jehovah's Witness, Manchester Democrats, LDS or U.S Mail.

It's more of a concern as to when she starts barking at the mailman. Before I get to that, it's important to know that we live in a normal neighborhood where people freely and regularly walk up and down the sidewalk at all times during daylight hours, usually pushing a stroller or being pulled by a dog. Hellion, perched atop her lookout on the arm of the couch where she can monitor the neighborhood from the living room window, allows these pedestrians to walk past in silence.

But Monday through Saturday, Hellion begins to bark at around 11 a.m. I look out the window and see nothing. I look harder, opening the shades as far as possible and pressing my face against the glass to the point of pain to see what is the object of her ire. The mailman, walking his route, is across the street . . . five houses down. He is the size of a Cocoa Pebble to us. And yet she knows it's him, barking and growling, almost out of pure hatred. I compliment her on her remarkable eyesight – clearly better than mine – then tell her to pipe it down.

Maybe it's the blue wool pants, blue cotton blend shirt, eagle-emblazoned hat or the canvas sack of mail. Whatever it is, Hellion doesn't like it.

Where's the Laundromat?

We were driving in downtown Hartford today and were stopped at a stoplight. My window was down, letting the 78-degree air permeate the car's interior. A man on the sidewalk carrying a sack of laundry shouts at me.

"Hey, do you know where there's a laundry-mat?!"

Unfamiliar with that part of town I said I didn't know.

But after thinking about for a second, I was like "Man, you need a plan before you're walking down the street with a bag of dirty clothes."

Human-Sized Bunnies and Potentially-Evil Clowns

Estimated reading time: 57 seconds

Saturday's front page of the Hartford Courant featured unrelated photos of two entities in which I find unequivocally frightening: A human-sized Easter Bunny and a clown.

The bunny was holding a screaming baby, a baby whose screaming is for the first time whole-heartedly justified. If I were being cradled and potentially strangled dead by a grinning, man-sized rabbit, I would too scream with the fear of God.

If I saw that bunny anywhere outside, say, a mall or a fair or a parade, I would respond in one of two ways. Either I would retreat as fast as my aerobic condition permitted, or I would savagely beat it to death, depending on my access to an object that would inflict an adequate amount of blunt force trauma, a tire iron perhaps.

This clown - oddly clutching a stuffed cat - is a somewhat less threatening figure although highly unnecessary and potentially evil and dangerous. Clowns I have learned to coexist with just as long as they don't make any sudden moves or aggressive gestures in my presence or direction. (On the topic, I'm still unsure what I think about those "street performers" who stand still until you put money in their cup before doing some sort of robotic movement or some otherwise non-human action. Double-unsure if all robotic movement corresponds with a hidden whistling sound coming from their mouth).

I was trying to think of what else that could have been pictured on the page more frightening than the giant bunny or the clown. I finally settled on Hobo Dentist.

Assorted thoughts of no particular importance

Estimated reading time: 1 minute, 22 seconds

Free-Throw Routines

Nearly every basketball player has some elaborate routine they go through each time they shoot free throws.

For one guy it's four quick bounces in front then one methodical bounce to the right. Shoot.

For another guy it's five slow bounces, clutch the ball staring at the rim, take a deep breath, assume shooting position, knees bent with emphasis. Shoot.

Another player doesn't bounce it at all but employs a dramatic spin before he shoots.

There are as many different free-throw routines as there are players.

I'm assuming these routines, followed with remarkable accuracy, are two parts rhythm – a way to keep things consistent at the line – and one superstition.

This all makes sense . . . for someone who shoots 86 percent.

But guys who are shooting in the 50s? Doing the same thing at the line every time? C'mon. Shake it up. That little thing you do where you rotate the ball so that your hand rests on the same part each time before you send the ball bouncing off the rim has gotten you a deplorable 46 percent clip from the free throw line.

On Vomiting

How come whenever people throw up in movies they always a) sit or kneel on the bathroom floor; b) stick their entire head or face into the toilet c) rest their arms on the dirtiest part of the toilet as they vomit?

Granted I don't throw up as often as people tend to in movies, but when I do I am always standing with my face at least a foot and a half away from anything I had just urinated into within the last 24 hours.

Game Idea

I want to come up with a board game for people to play when they call in sick to work but aren't really sick.

I'm not sure what to call it.

Vague Fortune Cookies

I got a fortune cookie the other day that said "Taking chances may bring success."

May bring success? May?

What kind of vague, on the fence fortune is that?

Why not just say "Taking chances may or may not bring success."

If you're are going to be vague about whether or not taking chances will bring success, at least be specific about something.

Drink four beers before going to work. Your relaxed demeanor may take the edge off a tense workplace and see that your efficiency and creativity skyrocket. Or you may unexpectedly get somewhat aggressive and confrontational over a co-worker's innocent question about punctuation. They smell alcohol on your breath and send you shamefully home in a cab, immediately putting you on unpaid administrative leave.