tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7449087403554300392024-02-18T21:51:04.035-08:00PlainOleMikeThe Miker Side of LifePlainOleMikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16240681618353521910noreply@blogger.comBlogger4213tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-744908740355430039.post-89288047337572644852008-12-24T09:08:00.000-08:002008-12-24T09:18:39.507-08:00Holiday Tidbits<p></p><p>Sitting here, less than 24 hours 'til Christmas, not wrapping presents, because I can't find the tape and I refuse to even look for the scissors, because I know that somehow I'll just stumble across them somehow in the next few hours, I realize that everyone seems to have that holiday spirit (or lack thereof) stuck right there on the front part of their minds. I figured I'd ramble a bit about those seasonal traditions that I just can't seem to wrap my brain around, whether they be good ones, bad ones, or indifferent. There are a few holiday musts for some people that I personally don't understand. It's not that they're bad or wrong, it's simply <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">that I</span> don't get them,</p><p><strong>1.</strong> <strong>Please Recycle</strong>. My whole life no one sent me a Christmas card. (Sure, my name got tagged onto the cards my parents were sent until well into college, but those don't count.) All that changed when my friends started getting married. All of a sudden, I'd<a href="http://x09.xanga.com/63db01635823123498233/b13127526.jpg" target="xangaphoto"></a> made the list. It felt incredibly strange to me to think that some newlywed couple sat down a few weeks before the holidays and had a conversation about who was card worthy. It's even stranger to me that those people, the same people that I had not received a card from years past, now came to the decision that they should pay 32 cents to mail me a small piece of cardboard. What an unusual way to say Merry Christmas. "Have a wonderful time celebrating the birth <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">of our</span> Lord, here's a chimp with a Santa hat." </p><p><strong>2. And Here in My Wallet is A Picture of... uh, Some Kid</strong>. Even stranger to me is opening a Christmas cards and finding a photograph inside. This odd development began around the time that my friends started having kids. Sure the kid is cute, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">and I'll</span> even hang him or her on my fridge for a few weeks. (Here at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">PlainOleHousehold</span>, we actually have an entire side of the fridge dedicated to pictures of children that we've never actually seen in person). I totally get it for the first few years, babies are great and you <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">want to</span> show them off to the world, but there's got to be a stopping point. For example, my cousin. She's quite a bit older than me. We were never close. We never even lived in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">same state</span>. I believe that I've been in the same room as her less than two dozen times in my entire life, but yesterday I received a warm holiday greeting complete with a creepy picture of her two sons, aged seventeen and twenty-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">two,</span> sitting in an awkward pose with a very odd looking sweaters on. Wallet size no less. Am I actually supposed to put this picture in my wallet? I know, it's the holidays, so it's the thought that counts and all that, but this is a very strange thought.</p><p><strong>3. Oh Look Honey, There's Strangers Singing on Our Porch</strong>. Sorry, I don't get it. I'm not a big fan of Christmas music to begin with, and I really have a difficult time comprehending why most people's musical tastes change drastically in the month of December. (My sister wouldn't be caught dead listening to Bing Crosby the rest of the year, but the day after Thanksgiving he achieves some sort of god status.) <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Okay</span>, if you like <a href="http://x7f.xanga.com/361b16725423223498356/b16608557.gif" target="xangaphoto"></a>to sing, then I can understand the fun you might be having, but aside from the nursing homes or the kid's hospitals, I'm not certain that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">I've ever</span> met anyone who truly enjoys being caroled. Get off <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">the warm</span> couch, open the door to the wind and cold, stand <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">there inappropriately</span> dressed for the weather, and smile a big fake <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">plastic smile</span>, all the while praying that these <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">weirdos</span> stop after <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">one song</span>. I can not imagine a more uncomfortable feeling. </p><p><strong>4. It's the Thought That Counts</strong> A shout out to those of you in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">blog</span>-land that preach the true <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">meaning of</span> the season. I start Christmas shopping the day <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">after Christmas</span>. In fact, I'm in a constant state of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Christmas shopping</span>. I search year round for the perfect gift for the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">people on</span> my list. Granted it's a short list, only seven people, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">I do</span> put a lot of thought into it. I get a lot of pleasure out <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">of watching</span> other people open my gifts, I really do. That's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">my favorite</span> part of Christmas. No, I don't spend a boatload of cash, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">I do</span> think I do a great job of finding just the right gifts. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">The student</span> loan officer and the mortgage company appreciate <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">my thriftiness</span>, but I also think that my friends and family see <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">the thought</span> and care I put into things. Sometimes I wish <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">they'd return</span> the favor. Most of my family, and other people I talk to, seem to believe not in quality, or even quantity, but in fair <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">market value</span> and net worth. I overheard a few parents in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">store today</span>, trying to find a way to even out the dollar value of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">the children's</span> gifts. My own mother told me the other day that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">she only</span> has to but one more gift for me, because she spent more on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">my sister</span>. I don't care what I get, or how much or it, just think <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">of me</span>. This year I will probably receive a fleece sweater that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">I won't</span> wear, a fifteenth pair of pajama bottoms to put on the pile, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">a book</span> that I've already read, a box of candy from my brother (who <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">has known</span> me for a long time and should know that I can't eat sugar), and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">a check</span> from grandma. Yeah, yeah, yeah, ho, ho ho, it's the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">thought that</span> counts, but sometimes there is no thought and that's the problem.</p><p><strong>5. Secret Santa Needs to Check His List Twice</strong> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Okay</span>,I actually like the idea of secret <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Santas</span> in a small office or in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">a large</span> family where you can't possibly get everyone a gift, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">it's gotten</span> out of hand. It's now as if every workplace in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">North America</span> feels the need to have a secret Santa gift exchange. No,we don't. I work in a school. There are forty-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">five teachers</span>, ten-twelve support staff people, a handful of administrators, a staff of custodians, and I have no idea how many <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">cafeteria workers</span>. We had a secret Santa thing this year. Not <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">wanting to</span> be accused of being a Scrooge, I reluctantly signed up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">to participate</span>. I <a href="http://xf8.xanga.com/5bc86a711753123499031/b16608941.jpg" target="xangaphoto"></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">drew Mrs</span>. Hill. Who? Yeah, that's what I said, who? I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">had no</span> idea who Mrs. Hill was. I didn't know what she taught. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">I didn't</span> know if she taught. Heck, I didn't even know her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">first name</span>. I asked three trusted friends, but none of them knew Mrs. Hill either. I would have asked more people, but what if <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">I accidentally</span> asked Mrs. Hill who Mrs. Hill was? What in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">world was</span> I supposed to buy this woman? I went with standard <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">womanly things</span>, like candles and soaps, but who knows if she'll like it? My wife's a woman and she'd throw junk like that away. <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">Whoever drew</span> my name must have at least known who I was (in addition <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">to teaching</span>, I coach the school baseball team), because I got a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">really nice</span> coffee mug with a baseball team logo printed on it. It was heavy,so I figured that it was pretty expensive, but I gave it to a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">friend the</span> next day, because I don't drink coffee and the logo stamped <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">on there</span> was the arch-rival of my favorite team. </p><p>Well, those are my Christmas pet peeves, I'm going to go toss <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">my Christmas</span> cards into the mailbox, maybe on the way back I'll stop at <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">my neighbor's</span> house and sing him a verse or two of Silent Night. Coming soon, the things I like about Christmas that most of you <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">probably hate</span>.<br /></p><center><a href="http://humorbloggers.com/"><img src="http://i403.photobucket.com/albums/pp113/humorbloggers/postlogo.jpg" /></a></center>PlainOleMikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16240681618353521910noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-744908740355430039.post-8573754937204678492008-12-12T06:51:00.000-08:002008-12-12T06:58:44.919-08:00Goodbye Laffy Taffy, Hello Taro?<p></p><p>Throughout time, people, not any specific people mind you, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">people in</span> general, have had to deal with some pretty difficult things. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">You have</span> all those instances of religious persecution, civil <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">rights movements</span>, wars, famine, a time or two when some poor sap was asked <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">to lift</span> something really really heavy and carry it up a hill or a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">really steep</span> staircase. There were folks that had to fight lions in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">them wacky</span> ole gladiator arenas, fellas who had to dig themselves out <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">of avalanches</span>, and I once knew a guy who stood in line for a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">KFC</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">buffet behind</span> a really really really fat guy. </p><p>Sure, a lot of these things don't <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">really compare</span> with one another, but they all have one thing in common: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">they are</span> probably the most difficult thing that particular person ever <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">had to</span> deal with.<br />Me, I've never done mortal battle with any of the big cats, I've <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">never lugged</span> a piano up a muddy slope, and I've never ever ever never <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">been down</span>-wind of Louie Anderson, however, I am dealing with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">something especially</span> difficult right now, something I've mentioned in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">passing before</span>, but something that just seems to have grown and grown <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">and grown</span> and taken over my life, kinda like a two-headed tumor <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">monster that</span> sucks the life out of you and calls you mean names at the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">same time</span>. What am I talking about? The diet.</p><p>No, not South Beach, Weight Watchers, Jenny Craig, Cabbage Soup, Zone, Lady Zone, Chocolate, Atkins, Metabolism, Amputation, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Scarsdale</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">One Good</span> Meal, Chicken Soup, The Danger Zone, Grapefruit, Fruit Loop, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">The Highway</span> Through the Danger Zone, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Scottsdale</span>, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Carbondale</span>, Chippendale, Chip and Dale, Juicy Fruit, Fruit Juice, or the Arthur <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Treachers</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Fish and</span> Chips Diet... I'm on the doctor crossed off everything on my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">list of</span> good food spreadsheet, slapped me on the wrist and shouted, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Soup Nazi</span> style, "No Food For You" diet.</p><p>For those of you who haven't heard, my new diet eliminates <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">about eighty</span> percent of what I used to eat, and I used to think I was <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">eating healthy</span>. For example, my usual <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">pre</span>-diet lunch consisted of: a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">mixed green</span> salad with spinach and some other unpronounceable leaves <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">that Bambi's</span> pal <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Thumper</span> would probably turn his nose up at, carrots, chopped almonds, dried cranberries, and a nice fat-free <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">raspberry vinaigrette</span>. On the side, a bottled water, an apple, and one of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">them fancy</span>-mix-it-all-up-like-you're-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">doin</span>'-the-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Cha</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">cha</span> yogurts with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">the hunks</span> o' fruit and the bits o' granola.</p><p>Post doctor visit... well, I'm still allowed the leaves, the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_40">granola bits</span>, and the water. Gone are the presumably healthy foods <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_41">like carrots</span>, apples, yogurt with fruity hunks, the cranberries, and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_42">that lovely</span> raspberry dressing. Why? I'm sugar free now.</p><p>The good doctor informed me that my triglycerides, which was also <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_43">the middle</span> name of the lounge singing creature at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_44">Jabba</span> the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_45">Hutt's</span> crib <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_46">in the</span> third Star Wars movie****, were a wee bit high.</p><p>**** source - Internet</p><p>According to the doc, anything above 150 is high, above 400 is <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_47">riding that</span> highway through the danger zone Kenny <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_48">Loggins</span> style, and above 850, well, you might as well do that one foot in the grave thing.(Subsequent Internet research has led me to believe that the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_49">doctor was</span> right and also he was wrong. Also, he may be the prince of Siam, can be seen going to the bathroom on something called a pee-cam - <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_50">but only</span> by Gold Members - and may have invented the banana seat). <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_51">My triglycerides</span> were up near 1200. So, special diet for Mike.</p><p>Apparently (also according to the web), triglycerides are not <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_52">only Lauren</span> Bacall's maiden name and the capital of Indonesia, but <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_53">they're some</span> sort of fatty fatness in your blood that makes you (in due time)a pretty good candidate for heart disease, stroke, damage to all <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_54">the muckety</span> guts, and perhaps even the Oklahoma State Senate*.</p><p>*source - the Internet</p><p>Triglycerides come from sugar. Sugar, it seems, comes from not <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_55">only sugar</span>, but things that have sugar in them, like non-sugar-free gum,candy, cakes, two for a dollar McDonald's apple pies, cookies,brownies, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_56">Fudgecicles</span>, ice cream, Mountain Dew, ginger snaps, caramel, chocolate, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_57">Laffy</span> Taffy, and (who'd a thunk it) Pixie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_58">Stix</span>.</p><p>But plain ole sugar sugar isn't the only culprit here, it turns <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_59">out that</span> starchy things like corn, carrots, potatoes, pasta, bread, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_60">Cap'n Crunch</span>, pizza crust, my dad's collared shirts, and rice somehow <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_61">get magically</span> turned into sugars by our bodies. I was hoping that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_62">perhaps I</span> could train my body to magically turn the starches into <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_63">something different</span>, maybe Vitamin D or hundred dollar bills or super models,but the doctor seems to think that's unlikely. The Internet <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_64">is non</span>-committal, although it does believe that romping in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_65">sunshine while</span> waving hundred dollar bills at super models may <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_66">lower triglycerides</span>.***</p><p>*** source - Internet</p><p>Also off the menu are fruits and fruit related things like jellies <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_67">and juices</span>. Which is both good and bad, because I love fruit juice, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_68">I finally</span> get to tell Richard Simmons to go the hell away.</p><p>That list of food I eat on a regular basis that I gave to the doc,it's not much of a list anymore. Really, it's more of a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_69">scribbly</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_70">mess with</span> the words meat and vegetables still sitting there in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_71">middle of</span> a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_72">vortexy</span> whirlwind of red pen cross-outs. Now, my dinners <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_73">consist of</span> things like steak with a side of pork chops or chicken with a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_74">side of</span> pork chops or even pork chops with a side of pork chops, and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_75">my lunch</span> today is a sandwich made on a multi-grain bread with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_76">the consistency</span> and taste of a roofing shingle, sugar free peanut butter,and a pseudo strawberry preserves that is the color that can only <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_77">come from</span> something radio-active and more than just resembles tar. On <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_78">the side</span>, I have a little baggie full of root vegetable chips, yes, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_79">root vegetable</span> chips. I didn't know what they were either, but they <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_80">made the</span> weird dude at the Trader Joe's kinda giddy. They're made <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_81">from things</span> like parsnips, beets, yams, and something called taro that <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_82">may just</span> end those water-on-Mars debates, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_83">cuz</span> that stuff had to <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_84">grow somewhere</span> and it sure as heck wasn't Earth (the Internet seems <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_85">to believe</span> that taro is a slutty Hollywood starlet, a province in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_86">ancient Greece</span>, and that "taro has leaves that are 1 to 2 meters long with along, erect petiole.**"</p><p>**source - Internet (probably one of the icky sites)</p><p>I found the chips when the incredibly overzealous Trader Joe's <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_87">stock clerk</span> ran around the store trying to find stuff I could eat. It <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_88">was very</span> nice of him to go through the effort, and it was above and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_89">beyond when</span> he started opening all the bags and offering me tastes <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_90">of vegetable</span> puffs, soy and flax seed tortillas, whole grain pancakes,<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_91">poofy</span> soy crisps, and tofu bratwursts. Now at least I have <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_92">some variety</span> in my life. Next time I have a steak with a side of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_93">pork chops</span>, I can throw some of the orange veggie poofs and a couple of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_94">the taro</span> chips (with real beet juice) on the top for color, at <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_95">least that's</span> what the Internet told me to do.<br /></p><center><a href="http://humorbloggers.com/"><img src="http://i403.photobucket.com/albums/pp113/humorbloggers/postlogo.jpg" /></a></center>PlainOleMikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16240681618353521910noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-744908740355430039.post-12872669364153882062008-12-04T05:42:00.000-08:002008-12-04T06:02:30.790-08:00Seven Things about PlainOleMike<p></p><p>This past weekend, Bee over at <a href="http://beesmusings.blogspot.com/">Bee's Musings</a> tagged me with this seven things about yourself meme. I thought long and hard about it and came up with these interesting tid-bits about myself to share. </p><p>1. I am deathly afraid of elevators. I'm not as bad as I used to be, but I still get very nervous when the doors close and the car starts moving. Sometimes I feel sick to my stomach, but I used to get dizzy. This made life very difficult in college when I was assigned a room on the 14th floor of the dorm building. It all stems from a childhood incident in which I was stuck on an elevator all by myself. </p><p>2. I'm an English teacher, but I failed English class my senior year in high school. It was stupid - I could have passed, but I was a stubborn idiot who chose the wrong battles to fight - I didn't like the book we had to read in class, so I didn't. </p><p>3. I hate Christmas music. It drives me nuts. I can't understand how people can listen to it non-stop for an entire month before Christmas. What I really don't get is how people, who all have their own musical tastes, suddenly drop their love of rock or country or hip-hop or whatever it is you listen to, to listen to nothing but bad music that if the lyrics were about anything but Santa and baby Jesus and boys with drums they'd hate. While I'm ba-humbugging, I don't like <em>It's a Wonderful Life </em>either.</p><p>4. I also hate ham. I love all other pig related meats, but ham is nasty. I can not stand the taste of it. However, oddly enough, if I have leftover ham, and I fry it up in a skillet in the morning with some eggs and toast - I love it - which is doubly weird, because in any other situation I hate eggs too.</p><p>5. I have a pair of pants that I wear to work at least once a week without a button. The button fell off the first time I bought the pants, so I put it in that weird little pocket to sew it back on later. That was two years ago. The button is still in the pocket, and I still wear the pants often - I just make sure to wear them with a shirt that stays untucked. I'm either a huge slob or incredibly lazy, maybe both.</p><p>6. I have some sort of intolerance to sugar. I don't know why, but my body doesn't process excessive sugars the right way and I get terrible migraines. I have to be very careful about the amount of sugar I eat, but not just ice cream, candy, and cake - all other sugars like fruit, juice, potatoes, pasta, breads... It makes for interesting menu planning. People don't understand it, so I usually just tell them I have diabetes (because my condition is in the diabetes family), because at least they've heard of and "get" diabetes.</p><p>7. Birds are inexplicably drawn to my car. My wife, my dad, and my friends thought I was nuts when I told them this, but they've since witnessed the phenomenon. I will drive down the road and the birds that swoop around and get out of the way of everyone else... they fly right into my car. I don't try to do it, but I have hit five flying birds in the last year (three in the grill, one square on the headlight, and one on the windshield). I don't understand it, and I wish it would stop, but for some reason all suicidal birds see me as an aviary Kevorkian or something.<br /></p><center><a href="http://humorbloggers.com/"><img src="http://i403.photobucket.com/albums/pp113/humorbloggers/postlogo.jpg" /></a></center>PlainOleMikehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16240681618353521910noreply@blogger.com3