I Dub Thee – Starship Laptopia

Over the past three years, I have owned a laptop computer. I have waxed on previously, ad nauseam, about how much I love my laptop. I have used it for work. I have used it to listen to the radio. I have used it for school work. I have used it to talk to friends and loved ones worldwide. I could go on but I think I am beginning to add to the ad nauseam. Besides, I have a bad habit of going on literary tangents and I never cared much for geometry. Mind you, Pythagoras really had some good idea with the triangles and all. Oops, there I go again. Forgive me, I'll try to avoid the bunny trails going forward and stick to the subject. I'll also try to avoid using non-sequiturs because I really like dogs.



Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, I was talking about my laptop. The thing is that I was using my laptop for so many things; I actually had a laptop table set up at my bedside. On some days, I would sit for hours at the side of my bed doing the any one of the aforementioned ad nauseam tasks. This was not only inexcusably sedentary. It was really not that comfortable. I'd occasionally relocate myself and the laptop to different areas of the house: the dining room table, the living room couch, or (in warmer months) the patio table outside. The change was often welcome. Still, I'd even wind up back at that uncomfortable spot at the side of my bed with my laptop perched atop a plastic folding tray table. Again, it got to be rather uncomfortable and yet I'd stay there and suffer in silence (though some might debate if I was actually suffering or silent).



Clearly, it was going to take some ingenious brilliance to solve this issue. I have been known to come up with a few good ideas here and there. However, in this case, the ingenious part came from the innovative ingénue of the house (aka the missus). My wife decided that it was time to invest in a desk and chair to use my laptop. What can I say? She can be the epitome of ingenious. OK, I realize I have been throwing in a couple of alliterations in this paragraph. Please bear with me, when I am avoiding tangents and non-sequiturs, I must have some kind of an alternative.



We got the desk and chair home and began unpacking the parts. I sat on the floor and spent the next 45 minutes or so engaging in ergonomically injurious assembly. In spite of the tremendous aggravation to my tendonitis, everything went smoothly. My wife even told me I looked "cute" with my Braves hat on backwards. I tried to take that as a compliment.



The desk and chair were completely assembled. I transported my laptop to its new location in an almost ceremonial fashion. Other items soon found a place either on the desk or next to it: lamp, headset wit microphone, harmonica set, guitar (next to the desk), house slippers (underneath the desk), and a miniature rubber ducky that blinks when you hit it (which I love doing). I sat in my new desk chair to get a feel of my new acquisitions. The chair's comfort was a welcome change. I now sit at my desk and it's like my laptop has a new perspective. I feel powerful. I feel like I have just taken command of the Starship Laptopia. OK, it's a lame name but let me have my moment. I am a new productive machine and the world is my oyster. Yes, I realize I just used two metaphors in that last sentence. After avoiding tangents, non-sequiturs, and alliterations, not much else is left.

I'm Seeing A College Girl

About three months ago, I started taking college courses online to pursue a Bachelor’s degree in Health Information Management. It was a move that is designed to marry my experience working in hospital settings (during my twenties) and my information technology experience (which began in my mid thirties). So far, the two classes I have taken this semester have been manageable in conjunction with my job and my home life. I am happy to report that, as of this writing, I am maintaining a 97% average in both of my classes.

This is due in no small part to the support of my wife, Renee. She made a lot of phone calls and did an amazing amount of legwork to get me rolling. Once, I got started she has done her best to be sure I have a good environment in which to do my homework. She even prints my test scores and puts them on the refrigerator next to the macaroni art. OK, that part isn’t true but you get the picture.

My wife informed me just as I was starting college again that she was making plans of her own. She told me she was planning to enroll in college herself to pursue a degree in social work. She wants to provide advocacy and support for families with special needs children. You could have knocked me over with a feather. This is assuming that the feather was six feet long, weighed about ten pounds and was made of lead. Just as I thought everything was beginning to slow down and settle a bit. My industrious and (seemingly) impetuous wife has thrown another rock into the river. I am still not quite sure why this rock gave me such a jolt. After all, a ripple in the river is hardly a hurricane on the coast.

My wife has just received news of her acceptance into Empire State College.  This means that starting January 2011, out of a family of six, five are college students. My youngest, Caleb, won’t be far behind as he graduates high school in the spring. My older daughter, Shayna, will be graduating college at the same time. It is almost as if Shayna is opening a spot for Caleb to fill.

I have made jokes over the past couple of days that, come January, I am going to be running around with a college girl. Mind you, such a remark is designed to add some levity (and perhaps feed my mid-forties ego). The truth is, I see my wife’s approach and I see someone driven and focused with her eyes on the proverbial prize. She is in many ways the same woman I have been looking at for the last nineteen years. Yet, she is very different. It is very easy to see a ripple in the river and curse the waves rather than observe and embrace the beauty. I can't wait to see her in a college sweater. BOY HOWDY!

Tiny Bubbles (Make Sonic Happy)

Last weekend, my wife, Renee, and I attended the wedding of a colleague of mine from a former job. It was a lovely wedding. The groom and his groomsmen wore these spectacular tuxedoes complete with tails, canes, and top hats. The ring bearer was this dashing young man wearing the same type of outfit. He had long, shoulder length hair that curled underneath his top hat. For such a young man, he played his role with a great sense of protocol, chivalry, and decorum. Indeed, the only thing lovelier than the wedding was the bride (the aforementioned colleague).



The couple exchanged their vows and sealed their marriage with a kiss. Renee and I exited the church and congratulated the newly wedded couple. As we exited, the dashing young ring bearer presented each person with a vial. The vial contained bubble solution and a wand for blowing bubbles. In lieu of rice or bird feed, the bride and groom brilliantly decided to have everyone shower them with bubbles. After all, when people are in their absolute best, you really don't want to attract the attention of birds flying overhead. Renee and I went to the reception and enjoyed some pleasant conversation with the folks at our table (along with some great food). Eventually, Renee and I again congratulated the couple and headed home.



A couple of days later, I was sitting around the house and generally being annoyed by one of the four cats in our house. Those of you who know me (or read my previous writings) know that I am not exactly a cat lover. Cats, to me, provide little purpose other than a foot rest or a buffer for my shoes. I have tried to find some common ground so that the cats and I may peacefully coexist (often to little or no avail). However, on this particular day, I found one of the vials of bubble solution from my friend's wedding.



Let me just state that whoever it was that came up with the idea to market bubble solution was quite brilliant. Give the average enough bubble solution and the right wand, the same person can blissfully pass an entire day making bubbles and watching them disappear (only to make more). One is only limited to the amount of bubble solution and an intact wand. I believe that making bubbles can (at least temporarily) alleviate grief and lower crime rates. Think about it, if two dudes met each other on the street and sized up one another, they could start duking it out or they could make bubbles. Teenagers could vandalize a neighbor's car or make bubbles with the neighbor. In both scenarios, one choice will cause someone to get hurt or arrested (and provoke some type of insurance claim). The other choice provokes nothing more than smiles, amusement, and laughter. No one gets hurt. The crime rate and insurance premium go down. The world is a better place. But, I digress.



Anyway, I was sitting with this vial of bubble solution and decided to see if it could help me find some common ground with the cats. The cats could enjoy the bubbles with me and I would (temporarily) find them less irritating. I started making bubbles. One of the older cats, Snip immediately ran from the room as if he was avoiding a bubbly nuclear holocaust. However, the younger male, Sonic enthusiastically chased the bubbles and pawed at them at which they popped. At this point, Sonic would meow until I produced more bubbles. Eventually, I would stop and Sonic would get the point. Sonic would then go onto other means of entertainment such as sleeping.



This all seemed well and good until it became clear that I had created a monster. Now, instead of learning feline aerodynamics by doing the figure eight under my legs (knowing how much I hate that), the cat would just come up to me and stare me down. It started with the stare down and they he would begin his Marge Simpson meow (MMMMMMMMMMMM). If I did not start making bubbles by this point, he would actually open his mouth to meow. Renee, on the other hand, is the bubble enabler. She will see me yelling at the cat: LEAVE ME ALONE! At this point, Renee starts making bubbles and Sonic is once again content. Now, I just want to go to the toy store and find a wand that will make one of those enormous, gigantic bubbles and trap the cat inside it. Alas, I know if I did that, Sonic would just start meowing at me again once the bubble popped.





NOTE -  The former colleague I spoke of in the beginning is none other than Megan Hartman Barton. Mrs. Barton is the founder of the blog "A Dash of Nutmeg". Please take the time to visit Megan's blog at http://www.dashofnutmeg.com/ and take in all of her wonderful recipes. Please be sure to congratulate Megan on her recent nuptials and tell her I sent you. - P Shane McAfee (founder of BDGJM)

Sometimes, Stress Is Good?

I had the joy of visiting my doctor recently. During this visit, we got caught up the state of my mind and body since I had last seen my doctor some 8 months previously. She commented about my weight and asked if I felt that the reading was accurate. I made a comment that scales don't lie (in an effort to dismiss the subject). Her next question had the subtlety of 100 grit sandpaper: "Have you noticed your clothes have begun to fit more tightly?" My wife nodded in silent agreement. I felt like I was at a parent teacher conference being called out for passing notes in class. Except in this case, I was being called out for repeatedly asking someone to pass the gravy.

Along with this pleasant topic of conversation, my doctor made some adjustments in my medications. In the interest of being through, my doctor also scheduled me for a cardiac stress test. I have some mild anxiety over this forthcoming test but I was usually able to divert myself with other things: work, watching the Braves lose the wildcard playoffs after a good season, learning new chords on the mandolin, or preparing for two upcoming midterm exams. OK, maybe that last one wasn't the best way to avoid stress. Getting an F on one of these midterms is more stressful. After all, this will require that my wife and kids will have to meet with my teachers. I'd prefer not to be the only grounded parent in my neighborhood. In the days that followed, my wife caught a terrible cold. I did my best to keep my distance while proving her with a never ending supply of cold medicine and cough drops. My room reeked of eucalyptus. I had koala bears knocking on my door at 3 in the morning begging me to hook them up.

The day before the stress test, my wife got a phone call from the office performing the test. They said I could not eat for 4 hours prior to the test and I could not take my blood pressure medicine. I don't know about you but it was beginning to sound like they were stacking the deck against me. I was sure that any minute they were also going to feed me a fried bologna sandwich and make me sit in a sauna for 20 minutes before the test. This didn't happen which was sad. I rather enjoy fried bologna.

A cardiac stress test involves attaching enough wires to your body to become an antenna for the nearest college radio station then briskly walking on a treadmill. You start at a nice pace with no incline. As the walk continues, they increase the speed and the incline. During all of this, a nurse has a blood pressure cuff wrapped around your arm. This requires a lot of talent considering that you are walking and wired for sound (I think I hear the B-52's playing). So every minute or so, the nurse will say "30 more seconds on this level". Then, as you make your way up this imaginary hill and you feel as if your face will explode, the nurse inflates the blood pressure cuff on your arm to get another reading. I can only describe this part of the experience by saying I think I know what it feels like to be a zit.

The speed and incline got me to where I felt like I was racing my way to claim a prize at the top of Stone Mountain. It would have been true as I was really getting an urge for that fried bologna sandwich. The routine continued: "30 more seconds, Shane", another blood pressure reading, and my head feels like Mount Saint Helens. At this point, the treadmill slows down and the incline levels off. The nurse then takes off the leads which held the monitor wires (Darn, I was really digging that song). It is at this point that I should delicate point out that I am, shall we say, hirsute (i.e. hairy as an ape). I didn't really think of the repercussions at the beginning as the nurse was strategically shaving areas of my chest to place the leads. Now that the leads were off, I looked like aliens have made crop circles on my chest.

I left the office with my wife and I treated her to breakfast. Now, I know what you are thinking. So, let me just set the record straight. I DID NOT HAVE a fried bologna sandwich. After breakfast, I went home to relax and prepare for a midterm that was taking place that evening. As the day went on, I began to notice that my very generous wife had something waiting for me once I got home. She had given me her cold. Man, I had JUST gotten rid of those koalas, too.

Professor Momma: TV Travel 101

   My mother was a very patient and accommodating woman going back as far as I can remember. I am the youngest of three children my parents brought into this world. Given that two siblings came before me, my mother had grown accustomed to the (seemingly) constantly inquisitive mind (and mouth) of a child. I was certainly no exception to this rule. I would ask my mother questions about whatever happened to pique my curiosity. My mother would respond matter-of-factly with an informative answer.
   She would often do so without even having to stop whatever it was she was doing. Sometimes, she wouldn't even have to face me. We could be in the produce section of a grocery store. My mother would be diligently inspecting a cantaloupe for potential purchase. I would be behind her (but always within arm's reach). The conversation usually went like this: "Momma, what's that?" "It's an eggplant and don't touch, Honey." "Momma, is this a big potato?" "That's a rutabaga and don't touch." "Do roobagrabbah's taste good?" "It's a 'ROOT-uh-beg-uh' and they taste very good. They are also good for you." [Note: When Momma said it was good for me, it usually meant I wasn't going to like it.] "Is the purple egg thing good for you, too?" "Yes, eggplant is very good for you" [News Flash: I don't like eggplant either]. "What's this, Momma?" "It's a coconut and DON'T TOUCH!" We would continue to the meat counter, the dairy section, etc. etc. We even passed by a kid being reprimanded by his mother for breaking a dozen of unpaid eggs. I proudly and smugly informed him: You're NOT supposed to touch." "SHANE, THAT'S UGLY!" My mother would then firmly take my hand and lead me onto the bread section. Like I said, she was very patient.

   This type of question-and answer was not limited to the grocery store. I could find my mother pounding cube steak with a glass soda bottle. It was loud and my mother was relentless. "Momma, why are you beating up on that steak?" "It helps to tenderize it and it tastes better that way." Another day, I was watching my mother iron some clothes. She would patiently and diligently iron this shirt and that pair of pants. "Momma, why do you iron stuff?" "It gets all the wrinkles out of them and they look nicer". Tender meat and wrinkle free clothes; Professor Momma was gonna make me one educated individual.

   One day, I was sitting in the living room while watching a show on a very small black and white television set. [Some historical perspective: there were three channels, no color, and no cable. Somehow, we deprived souls enjoyed it. Anyway, I digress.] "Momma, how do the people get into the TV?" "There is a TV studio on the other side of town. They have a camera that records the people. The camera then sends the recording using a signal. The antenna in our TV catches the signal and you see the people in the TV." "You mean the signal travels through the sky like an airplane?" "In a way, yes." "What does the signal look like?" "It's invisible." "AMAZING!"

   One morning my mother woke me up and said she had a special surprise for me. She got me dressed and made me breakfast. She then drove me to this really cool looking building with something that looked like a flying saucer outside it. My mother had taken me to the local television studio. Not only that, the special surprise was that I was going to be ON TV. That's right, people. I was a guest on "Miss Patsy's Playhouse" which was a local kiddie show in Columbus, Georgia in the early 70's. I learned that day that my Momma was not only smart enough to answer my questions. She was also talented enough to help me travel invisibly through the sky and into every TV set in Columbus, Georgia. Mr. Wonka, you have been one-upped to infinity.

In Every Man’s Life, Some Whiskers Must Fall

As I have mentioned in some of my other writings, I currently work in technical support in a call center which many of my fellow colleagues affectionately (or with extreme irritation) refer to as a "cube farm". The company for whom I perform said technical support has staff which spans the entire globe. We have folks that work in several areas in the United States as well as staff overseas. In spite of this great, diverse, and widespread staffing, we all communicate with one another quite frequently (usually via email).



One day, one of our colleagues came up with a hair-brained scheme (pardon the intentional misspelling). He proposed that since the peak of our work season runs from Mid-August to Mid-October, the male staff should grow beards as a sign of solidarity. I guess he felt this was a way promote esprit de corps among the male staff. The female staff (thankfully) did not feel the need to participate in this activity. They instead decided to show their respective solidarity and collectively sashay away from the esprit de corps.

 Many of us men chose to participate. You could easily dismiss as sheep following a call. Scoff if you will. We rams were more than happy to begin sporting our great naps of woolen whiskers. One man chose to wear a Van Dyke beard. Another man chose to channel his inner Abraham Lincoln and wear a chin curtain beard. One man had to recuse himself from the activity as he already had a nearly waist length beard that would have made Billy Gibbons green with envy. Other male colleagues (and I as well) chose to grow a full beard.


As each week passed, we admired the growth of some beards and pitied the attempt of others. "Dude, your beard is filling out real nice." "Hey, son; why don't you peel off that peach fuzz and have your Mom read you a nice story". "Dude, stop crying. We were only joking." We sat at our respective cubes and stroked our beards (and our egos) with great pride. I have to admit; the male bonding ritual was quite enjoyable.



Alas, not all was great in this great state of heavenly hirsutism. My daughters would not come near me. I had been dubbed "Scruffy". I took such comments in stride. Then, I began to notice something that became much more prominent as time passed. The beard I had acquired in my forties had become significantly different than beards I had grown in my twenties. Patches and streaks of gray had begun to accent (or in some areas entirely cover) my wondrous beard. It was one thing to have your kids tell you that you are no spring chicken. It is another to realize that my beard has reached its autumnal equinox and I had the follicular foliage to prove it. The kids had dispensed the "Scruffy" moniker and began calling me "Santa". My wife had also stated her displeasure with the beard. In short, her husband had a beard and so does a turkey. She found neither to be particularly attractive.



With my approaching wedding anniversary right around the corner, I decided to do the unthinkable. I decided to get rid of the beard before the end of the peak work season that prompted its growth. I flicked the switch to the beard trimmer and hesitantly took that first stroke. That first clump of hair seemed to fall at half speed and make a reverberated thud onto the bathroom counter. I had crossed the Rubicon. There was no longer any room for rationalization or mind changing. Once I realized this, each stroke with the trimmer got easier and easier. I shaved off the stubble with a razor and foam and saw the lower half of my face for the first time in a month and a half. I looked down at the mound of whiskers piled up on the counter. I then dutifully cleaned up this pile. After all, if my wife saw that, I'd have bigger problems than a few gray facial hairs. The autumnal equinox that was my face has become more tolerable. However, the winter solstice is surely approaching. I can already see the snow on the roof.

Before

After

Comma, Come Here (Please).

As a writer, I always find it particularly pleasing to learn something new as I am seeking to amuse myself and my readers. I found myself musing over some pet peeves of punctuation and grammar. For example, I detest the use of quotation marks for emphasis. For example, you walk into a thrift store and you see a handcrafted sign that reads: ALL SALES ARE "AS IS" WITH "NO IMPLIED WARRANTY". This implies that the terms of the sale could be left to interpretation. Apparently, the cost of ink is great to underline words than to encase them in quotes. Our country has an undesirable unemployment rate and there are a lot of folks seeking work. In spite of this we have folks throwing around quotation marks willy-nilly and forcing them to work outside of their job description. Anyway, I digress.


Given that it was my day off from work and I had no homework to do, I did some Internet surfing about punctuation. I ran across the name of a great man — Aldus Manutius (circa 1450 – 1515 A.D). Aldus Manutius the Elder made some great innovations in writing that we now take for granted. Manutius the Elder invented the use of italics in writing. This can be a great tool of emphasis or aside information when used correctly (unlike those poor quotation marks). Manutius the Elder also established the modern use of the semi-colon. More significantly he produced what was then known as octavo book (one-eighth size paper). This allowed books to be carried in one's pocket or satchel. That's right, folks. Manutius the Elder created what we know as the paperback or pocketbook.


You may wonder what lead me to start this Internet search in the first place. Some might suggest that it could be one of the three following reasons: a) I was looking to expand my knowledge. b) My warped mind took me onto a new adventure. c) I was incredibly bored and my wife was hogging the television. Mind you, all three scenarios were a factor but the third was probably the greatest motivator. It all started very simply. My wife had to draft a 300 word essay for entrance into a college program. At first, she asked for my assistance as she was unsure that she could pound out 300 words. I found this laughable. A diplomatic person would say that my lovely wife is blessed with the gift of loquacity. I would quote the late Jerry Clower and suggest that my lovely wife "sure can shell down the corn". The point is that 300 words would not be a problem.


As I reviewed her essay, I corrected some spelling here and suggested some rewording there. I then noticed something very distinct. I have also reviewed a lot of essays for our daughter Brianna. However, Brianna and my lovely wife Renee are very different in the way that they handle one lone item; the comma. My wife, Renee, tends to insert commas here, there, and, everywhere with such reckless abandon, that is only rivaled by, the aforementioned quotation mark in its use. My daughter Brianna on the other hands writes gloriously long run-on sentences that are four feet long five feet wide and could pierce the engine block on an eighteen wheeler. I do not wish to come across like I am insulting either my daughter or my wife. Both have been known to prepare my meals. In addition, Brianna proofreads my essays before I post them to my blog site. I merely found this distinction between mother and daughter very intriguing. Therefore, I searched for the comma and found Aldus Manutius the Elder. Thank you Elder Manutius for all you have done.


I will submit a disclaimer here as well. I do not mean to suggest that I am an authority on punctuation or grammar. Several of my online friends are teachers (two of them are MY former English teachers). Instead, I will suggest that you turn to the writers' works below. I have no endorsement deal with any of these folks. I don't make a royalty nor do I get an autographed copy of their work (Mind you, I would never be so rude as to refuse such a gesture).

• Lynn Truss – Author of Eats, Shoots & Leaves; a great book that provides an accurate tongue in cheek guide on proper punctuation. http://www.lynnetruss.com/
  
• Mignon Fogarty aka Grammar Girl – I am a huge fan of the Grammar Girl podcasts and highly recommend Grammar Girl's Quick and Dirty Tips for Better Writing
  http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/
  
• Bonnie Trenga – Author of The Curious Case of the Misplaced Modifier: How to Solve the Mysteries of Weak Writing I bought this book for my daughter to help with her writing. http://sentencesleuth.blogspot.com/
  

I would also like to apologize to any of the above three writers for any implication that I have learned NOTHING from any of you.