As usual, the first thing they asked me to do was remove my contact lenses. It's a reasonable request, I guess -- except that I showed up twenty minutes early for my appointment (for once). So instead of effectively blinding myself and being led in to see the doctor immediately, I was dumped -- myopic and defenseless -- back in the lobby where normal, mostly-sighted people were shopping for eyeglasses. I'm sure they were all staring and pointing at the doofus meandering along the wall like a drunken spelunker to find a chair -- but how the hell would I know? It's not like I could see them or anything.

(For the record, I don't object to being stripped of my corrective lenses while I'm in the joint; if they need my eyeballs to be unfettered for their crazy optometrical eye-xperiments, well, that's what I'm there for.

I'm just suggesting that maybe we could disrobe my peepers in the exam room, privately -- and during the actual doctor's visit. That way, I'm not stuck all squinty and pitiful in the waiting area where people might get the wrong idea. One time, I went in wearing sunglasses and drinking a soda. People kept dropping change into my cup on the way by.

I swallowed two nickels and a parking meter slug before I realized what was happening. Freakin' cheapskates.)

Eventually, they retrieved me and led me in to see the doctor. She ran through a few tests, squirted unnamed liquids of various colors into my eyes -- Kool-Aid? Antifreeze? 'Hey doc, how come this one smells like asparagus?' -- and let me put my lenses back in. As crisp precious clarity swept away the graymorphous blobs of the past hour's existence, I looked at the optometrist, smiling at me from her chair.

And searched frantically for an excuse to tear the lenses back out.

It's not that my doc is ugly, mind you. Far from it -- she's an attractive lady, in her mid-forties, probably, with dark hair and the sort of skin tone that suggests at least one of her parents grew up sipping olive oil somewhere along the Mediterranean.

(Or she's Native American. Or Pakistani. Or maybe she's a compulsive tanner, or dips herself in a vat of shellac every morning. Who knows?

Clearly, my ethnicity-based-on-skin-tone deductive powers are lacking when I can't tell the difference between Northern Italian heritage and three coats of Thompson Water Seal. Fortunately, that's not the point. This time.)

No, the only problem with my doc is the look. She's somehow developed -- carefully crafted, even, over years of patient interactions, no doubt -- this... this look that she fixes you with while you're in the chair. It features a slight smile -- just an upturn of one corner of the mouth, really -- with wide-open eyes and just the hint of a playful twinkle. It's clear she's worked long and hard on this expression; I suspect it's her own personal 'Blue Steel'. It's meant to convey to her patients that she's here to help us -- she's friendly, and open, and not overly serious when she doesn't have to be. As a doctor, she can be trustworthy, a confidant, a partner in eye care. That's what she seems to be going for.

"I've always had trouble reading Pakistani-Italio-Cherokee women. Especially the varnished ones."

What I get from it is that she's mulling over stabbing me with a saline dropper and stuffing the body in the dumpster out back. Which is really not the sort of vibe you want to be getting from someone who just pumped your eyeballs full of chemicals and has you trapped in a dark room. Alone. With medical supplies.

Of course, it's possible I'm misinterpreting her look. My continued survival after several trips to see the woman -- or to squint toward the sound of her voice, mostly -- would suggest that her intentions are less than homocidal. And frankly, I've always had trouble reading Pakistani-Italio-Cherokee women. Especially the varnished ones.

Still. That look is one I've only seen on the likes of Law & Order baddies, and the sorts of calmly psychopathic killers they show in horror movie trailers before you've had time to avert your eyes. I'm not sure what that means for me -- but I do have a follow-up appointment next week, for a "fitting".

Only, I didn't order new contacts. And they told me to park in the alley behind the office this time. And to 'come alone'.

You know, if it weren't for the $10 co-pay on my insurance for going to this place, I would seriously think about finding a new optometrist.

In the meantime, with Thanksgiving looming a mere seven days away, I thought new and returning readers alike might find something of value in a cautionary tale I penned last November:

The Turkey Timeline: A Thanksgiving Day Misadventure

Consider it my public service announcement to you this holiday season. A 'how NOT to' guide to gaffing, gutting and grilling a gobbler. A comedic opera penned by Giblets and Silly-man. You get the idea.

And it's already written, which is a bonus. That leaves me more time to plan for the gustatory festivities in store for this Thanksgiving.

"She still won't let me near her wishbone, or her 'dark meat'."

Which will probably involve ordering Chinese food or something. I don't think the missus is ready for another turkey terror; she still wakes up in a sweat sometimes, mumbling, 'gobble... gobble gobble... gobble...'. She still won't let me near her wishbone, or her 'dark meat'. Hell, these days I'd give thanks for a little snood action, maybe some carbuncle petting. Anything.

So maybe we'll just skip Thanksgiving altogether this year. Which means I'll have to go a whole week without making a 'stuffing' joke.

That's a tough one. But I'll give it the old turkey try.

Yeah. You'd think.

Meanwhile, back on our own planet...

Yesterday, after I'd made up my mind to resurrect this little den of drivel, I drove over to a local pool hall for league night. Just as I was parking, my old roommate from college called. He was on a business trip, watching my favorite college hoops team on TV, and decided to give me a call to rub it in that they were down seven points at halftime at home to a team whose mascot is a goddamned arachnid reminisce.

Aw. How sweet. Sort of.

I sat in the car and chatted with him for awhile, until it was league time. As we wrapped up the call, I instinctively patted my pockets to make sure all the usual pants suspects were present and accounted for:

Back right pocket: wallet, check!
Front right pocket: keys... not there. Oh, but they're in the ignition. Of course. Check.
Front and center: everybody's home, zipper all the way up, checkamundo.
Front left pocket: cell phone.... missing. Shit. Where the hell did I leave the cell phone?

As my friend and I said our goodbyes (yes, that's right, over the phone, I know you can see it coming and there's nothing I can do now to hide it), I mentally walked through when I'd seen the phone last.

'I had it when I left the house this morning... played with it during the staff meeting, yep... three hour bathroom break to play tetris, and then... oh, right -- I had to plug it in to recharge the battery. Oh dear lord, my phone's still at the office!'

Thank the gods I have the one feeble brain cell still churning, or I'd have said all that out loud. Which means the end of our conversation would have gone something like this:

Me: Sorry buddy, I've got to run. I just realized I left my phone at work.
Him: Okay, sure-- wait. Your phone?
Me: Yeah, and it's new, too. I'd hate to lose it.
Him: Your cell phone, we're talking about?
Me: Right. I've really got to go and look for it, pronto.
Him: Dude. How the hell did you ever make it out of freshman year?

"You ever seen a neuron commit seppuku? It's not pretty."

As it was, it took me another full minute or so to realize that the phone wasn't in my pocket because, obviously, it was in my stupid hand. Another few seconds and I would have had the unenviable dilemma of trying to put the car back in gear to go find my cell phone while figuring out where to put my cell phone so I could drive.

And I don't think that last brain cell would have stood for that. You ever seen a neuron commit seppuku? It's not pretty.

In my defense, all I can say is that last night is one of the first times in the month I've had my new phone that I've actually used it as a phone. It's one of those fancy new Googly doohickeys, and though I use it for plenty of other nonsense on a daily basis, it's rare that I make the actual wireless talky-talky on it. So I was as surprised as anyone to discover that the phone missing from my pocket was, in fact, plastered to my cheek. What a novel concept.

Come to think of it, I'm a little surprised that I have the phone in the first place. I'm not exactly what you call an 'early adopter' of new technology. I had the mobile phone it replaced for a number of years -- it was a rotary-dial model and the size of a small doghouse, if that tells you anything. The phone before that, I picked up cheap sometime in the Cenezoic era; if the string hadn't broken completely off the tin can handset, I probably would have never traded it in.

But the draw of the Googly phone was too much; I bought it the very day it went on sale. Changed carriers to get it, too.

(Technically -- this is merely technically, now, understand -- but technically, I 'camped out' to get it.

Which means I accidentally showed up twenty minutes before the store opened and had to wait in line behind some Asian kid and his mom, a gaggle of RenFaire rejects and a guy whose nickname at some point in his life, I'm certain, was 'Jughead'. And probably still is.

Rubbing shoulders with royalty, I was. And I wonder why I don't 'camp out' for things more often.)

Anyway, the thing that really drew me to this phone is how open it is. Without getting into all of the mumbo jumboterica, the key is that people who want to write nifty little programs for it can have access to just about anything they want. The address book. The GPS. Wireless connections. Credit card numbers. Your DNA sequence. Pretty much everything.

And what a load off an already-taxed mind, let me tell you. Oh sure, they said at the store, this little baby doesn't do anything now. Nothing at all, really, but sit there and look not-nearly-pretty-enough-for-some-picky-people. But some day... some day Real Soon Now™, the world will be your cell phone's oyster.

You want to surf the web? You got it. Pinpoint on a map where someone's calling from? They'll figure out a way. Play a nice game of Global Thermonuclear War? Greetings, Dr. Falken.

Why, in the not-so-distant future, they said, you'll be able to program this system to ring an alarm to wake you in the morning, bring you Eggos and juice in bed, and toss a pair of fresh underpants in the dryer to warm to your liking.

(Of course, you'll need a hardware upgrade for that last bit of functionality. And additional carrier charges may apply, if your laundry room happens to be in a roaming area.

Also, I'd probably get the phone with a software glitch, and wind up with my Fruit of the Looms covered in syrup and wrinkly waffles stuffed down my pants. And I've long said I'm never letting that happen. Again. Not after the Great Denny's Fiasco of '06.)

So I suppose my mistake was not thinking of my phone as an actual phone. I should really write myself a note to remind me of that. Hey, maybe the phone has some program that can help.

Now where the hell did I leave that damned thing this time?

It's been quite a while since I've dusted off the old site for writing. Things look mostly the same around here as I remember them -- the same goofy picture, the blue-on-blue decor, the Simpsons mocking me with every click... but things are different now, too.

The sidebar has managed to hork itself out of a couple of sections, for one thing. How it managed to eat two blogrolls and a tribute list while I was away, I have no idea. I should have put that thing on a fricking leash.

That's not the big thing, though. Things are differenter, still.

"I guess they don't raise 'em like they used to up in the Frozen Tundra."

What, you might ask, has changed recently to draw my grubby little fingers back to the keyboard grind? What kept me away in the first place? And what did I do on my summer (and spring, and most of autumn) vacation?

I'll give you three guesses:

#1. I finally remembered my password.

Right. Like anyone who knows me would believe that I could somehow mentally misplace an important password for eight months, and then finally, heroically pull it back out of the vault and log in.

Please.

The people who really know me would realize that I forgot my password long, long ago, probably sometime during the Carter administration. If the browser hadn't cached my login info after the first time I set it up, I'd have never made it to post number two.

Trust me -- the 'vault' is a sieve. Turned upside down. And made from tissue paper. I'm lucky I remember the way to work and back every day; someday, they'll just throw me on a bus and pin a sign to my chest to tell the driver where to take me.

I'm just hoping when it happens, the sign doesn't read, 'Bolivia. Pronto!'.

#2. I had a baby.

Nice try, smartass.

The timing would be just about right, but no, in no way, shape or form did I have a baby. Nor did the wife. Nor the dog, who's still kicking around.

(And still distributing various fluids and ungodly odors throughout our house, as usual. For those who've forgotten or are unfamiliar with our little terror-ier, feel free to refresh yourself with one of her more memorable moments.

More on the mutt soon enough. If she hasn't gassed us to death by then.)

So no, no baby. Though it's quite possible I'm pregnant -- except for the whole anatomical dealie, with the 'no womb at the inn' and the penis and all. But I'm definitely starting to show.

(So I joined a gym last week. More on that in due time, too. Whoo.)

#3. Something shook me out of my unwriterly funk to post nonsense once again in a renewed spirit of justice, defiance and righteous indignation.

Yeah, I wouldn't have voted for #3, either. It sounds like actual work.

And yet, here we are.

Over the weekend, I discovered that someone out there (and I mean way out there, as in Wisconsin, of all places) was ripping off my old work -- dozens and dozens of posts -- and passing it off as his own. And had been for months, even while I was still sweating out new drivel here in late 2007. I guess they don't raise 'em like they used to up in the Frozen Tundra.

Long story marginally shorter, his site is gone now. If you're interested in the sordid details (and who doesn't like to get a little greasy now and then?), I've laid out the mess in a post over in the annex. I don't want the nonsense plastered all over the front page; a few incriminating snapshots and bits of evidence safely tucked away in the top of a closet should do just fine for now.

Meanwhile, I realized that I've missed writing here. And I felt an old familiar sensation swell in my chest -- pride? Gumption? Acid reflux? I can't say. But I'm back again to thinking of my words as my children -- and if anyone is going to abuse them, exploit them, talk bad behind their backs and slap them around all over the internet, then by god, it's going to be me.

So I suppose what I'm saying is:

</hiatus>

Welcome back, kids.

There I was on Thursday afternoon, weeping softly at my desk, as is my usual custom. To cheer my mood -- and take my mind off my throbbing sinuses -- I was listening to a few MP3s. Specifically, I had Fatboy Slim's Better Living Through Chemistry queued up, and playing loud. Maybe I was in a techno mood. Maybe I was comforted by the promise in the title -- a little NyQuil (or tequila, or possibly lye) could be just the ticket to a happier, phlegm-free future. Whatever the reason, those catchy tunes were the only bright spot in a sad, sniffly, scratchy-throated afternoon.

"It's uptempo, with a good beat. If I could dance at all without looking like an epileptic ostrich, I could dance to it."

At least, they were. Until I re-learned, for the umpeenth time, that timing. Is everything.

(Oh, and don't worry if you're not into ten-year-old techno electro nu break funk jungle house bass beats, or whatever the hell such songs are classified as nowadays. I'll walk you through the scant bits of info that are germane to the story.

I promise not to bop or crunk or beatbox or anything along the way. Lord knows no one wants to see that. Also, I could break a hip.)

So, there I was. Alone in the office. Weeping. Listening. Sniffling. Minding my own business. After a while, the song "Give the Po' Man a Break" came on. I like the song. It's uptempo, with a good beat. If I could dance at all without looking like an epileptic ostrich, I could dance to it. Good tune.

But Fatboy's lyrics are not the highlight, so much. In fact, the only words in the entire song are those in the title. Three or four minutes in, the first vocal sample emerges:

'Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break! Gee po manna break!'

No, Mr. Slim isn't revered for his enunciation, either. As a genre, the techno electro nu break funk jungle house bass beaters aren't typically 'Hooked on Phonics', as it were. It's usually easier to just call the tunes instrumentals, and treat the lyrics, such as they are, as another instrument or rhythm. That's what I do, anyway. But folks less experienced with the music might have a different view.

Someone like, say, the new kid who started working in our office last week. Turns out he -- who I gather isn't so experienced with the Fatboy Slim oeuvre -- needed to ask me a question that Thursday afternoon. So he walked into my office. While "Give the Po' Man a Break" was playing.

None of which is all that troubling -- except for one thing. Fatboy, you see, being an artiste, wasn't content to simply loop the same vocal sample over and over and over through the second half of his ditty. Instead, he reprised it in shorter and shorter versions -- treating it like another instrument or rhythm, just like I said. Me and Slim, we're on the same page here.

The new kid, not so much.

Of course, it might have helped had he poked his head into my office during the actual instrumental part. Or the part where the whole phrase is looped, as above. Or even the next step along, when the tune shouts:

'Gee po manna! Gee po manna! Gee po manna! Gee po manna!'

That would have sounded like gibberish, sure. But the new kid would have probably figured I was listening to some funky Latvian pop music, or playing MP3s backward, or something. I have a bit of a reputation for doing weird shit around the office.

I know. Go figure.

But he didn't walk in at any of those points in the song. Instead, he came in toward the end, when the sample is really chopped down and rapid-fire. So when he appeared in the doorway, my speakers were veritably blasting:

'Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po! Gee po!'

Which, to the naive ear unwise in the ways of the late-'90s techno milieu, sounds an awful lot like a guy shouting:

'Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn! Gay porn!'

At eighty decibels. Over a pulsing backbeat. On my speakers.

I didn't realize the misinterpretation right away, of course. It took a while to deduce, from the way the kid opened his mouth to ask a question, then stared wide-eyed at my computer for a bit, and then backed slowly out of the room. But I eventually figured it out, and realized how it must have sounded from his standpoint. So now I've got a whole new genre of odd stares and wacky rumors to work through, no doubt.

On the bright side, the new guy hasn't been back to ask me a question for a whole week. Looks like this po' man got a break, after all.

Not deathly, gasping my last breath, 'I'm coming to join you, Elizabeth!' sick, maybe. But still -- sick. I've spent much of the past ten days coughing up bits of things that may or may not have been attached to my internal organs. And someone evidently replaced my sinus fluid with some sort of napalm-'n'-molasses mixture, to see if I would notice.

Trust me, I noticed. Shove a bean up it and blow, Folgers.

"You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face."

Anyway, I'm better now. But it was a tough week and a half or so. You might think that the universe would take pity on a guy like me in his hour of weakness, when all I wanted was twenty hours of sleep a night and some sort of honker Hoover to schlurp the phlegm right out of my face.

Yep, you might think karma would cut me a break for once.

You might think that. But then you'd be an idiot.

Instead, I found myself last Friday morning -- at the very height of my infirmary -- standing in the driveway in the midst of a steady downpour, hacking and sniffling and contemplating the very, very flat left rear tire on my car. I was heavily medicated, had pressing work at the office and had already put on my 'out in public pants'. Still, the sight of that soggy saggy deflated rubber doughnut led me to strongly consider giving the world the big fat finger and crawling back into bed.

But no. That's just what karma would want, the little bitch. Instead, I got in the car and drove to a tire repair shop down the street. And things were all downhill from there.

I have this theory, you see. In the long and storied history of mankind, I contend that there has never -- ever been such a thing as a 'repairable tire'. I've personally flattened a few, busted a bunch, punctured a passel, and deflated a dozen or more. Not one of those holey wheels was deemed patchable. And neither was this one. The resident tire care triage expert broke the bad news -- as usual:

Tire Guy: Sir? I'm sorry. We couldn't save your tire.
Me: Ah. I see.
Tire Guy: We can sell you a new one, of course.
Me: Well, of course you can.
Tire Guy: Let's see... looks like the only tire we have in your wheelbase is the Blingerator here.
Me: The Blingerator?
Tire Guy: Yeah, it's great. Platinum-belted radials. Gem-encrusted treads. And the inner bladder is gold-plated.
Me: But... you can't even see it.
Tire Guy: True. But you know it's there.
Me: Peachy. I assume this thing is outlandishly expensive, then.
Tire Guy: Oh, you know it. Way more than those 'peasant tires' on your ride right now.
Me: Fine. Look, how about we just call in one of those ghetto tires, anyway? I like to match.
Tire Guy: Whatever you want, buddy. I'll order one for you, and it'll be here before you know it.
Me: Good. Because I've got an important meeting this afternoon.
Tire Guy: Oh, no problem. I'll check the computer now. Just so long as it's not back ordered.
Me: Okay.
Tire Guy: Uh-oh.
Me: Yes?
Tire Guy: It's back-ordered. You won't see it before August.
Me: Nice. Aren't there any other models you can get?
Tire Guy: Oh, sure. I can think of three others that'd fit your car. Lemme see here.
Me: Great, thanks.
Tire Guy: Hmmm. Back-ordered.
Me: *sigh*
Tire Guy: Back-ordered.
Me: Of course.
Tire Guy: Hey, then there's this one.
Me: Back-ordered?
Tire Guy: Nah. 'Recalled due to spontaneous explosions'.
Me: Really? That's it?
Tire Guy: Also? It's back-ordered.
Me: Naturally. The Blingerator it is, then.
Tire Guy: Wonderful. I'll just need the deed to your house, one of your kidneys and the rights to your first-born child. Nice doin' business with you.

An hour later, I snuffled my way back the car, poorer in mood, wallet, and probably health. But I did have a fancy new tire, I did make it to work, and I did sit through that big, important, interminable, excruciatingly boring meeting.

Yip. Fricking. Pee.

The next time karma comes around, remind me to smack it around with a gold-plated bladder. Kick me while you're down, will ya?

In the bathroom in the office, the janitors leave bags -- I said bags! -- full of unused, unopened toilet paper in the stall. Bags full. I'm not kidding. Seriously, look:

So many squares to spare.

Now, think about that for a second. Recall the offices in which you've worked, and reminisce over the modus operandi of the typical cleaning staff there. If they were anything like the jani-Nazis I've encountered in my previous jobs, then they were more than slightly stingy with the sanitary supplies. You might find a square, or even a pair. But squares to spare? Squares to tear and share? Pretty freaking rare.

Not so in our bathroom, my friend. In addition to the generous two rolls deployed in the industrial paper holderator device, there's this bag of extra papery goodness hanging out in reserve. Just in case.

My first thought is: Damn, these are some trusting janitors.

And my second: Why the hell haven't we thrown those rolls all over the stupid furniture by now?

I'm pretty sure this is why we can't have nice things. Ah, well.

So, when I was in the rest room this afternoon, I took a quick look in the bag. First, I made sure the stall door was shut, and no one was around. You've got to dig pretty far into the bag to pull out a roll, and the last thing I want anyone to hear from my stall is rustling.

(Okay, maybe not the 'last thing'. Let's not think about that too hard, eh?)

Anyway, I managed to fish out a roll, and found another surprise. Evidently, we're not only getting quantity here, we're steeping gently in quality, too. Check out this pic:

Oh, yeah. That's the good stuff.

First, there's the New England charm. 'HARBOR' brand bathroom tissue, with that classy picture of the lighthouse.

(Unless I'm seeing it wrong, and that's not actually a lighthouse. In which case I suspect it's a lot less classy than I'm giving it credit for.

Moving right along.)

More impressively, we learn from the label that this plucky parcel of paper is also 'Facial Quality'. And they just leave this stuff lying around in a bag. You can almost feel the swank dripping down the bathroom walls.

It started me wondering about what constitutes 'facial quality' tissue, though. Even letting sleeping entendres lie -- and who expected that sort of restraint at this point? -- I have questions. Are there grades between 'regular' toilet tissue and our obviously superior 'facial quality' class? Are less fortunate souls issued tissue only rated for, say, arms and toes? Is my 'facial quality' paper appropriate for all of my above-the-neck wiping needs? Or for that matter, any of them?

I didn't have time to answer these questions this afternoon. I was busy with my hand stuck in a plastic bag, snapping cell phone pictures in the bathroom stall. As you might imagine, I didn't tarry any longer than was absolutely necessary. That's not exactly a situation you want to explain to anyone who might walk in.

(Plus, I can't decide whether it helps or hurts my case that I was alone in there.

Seriously, I thought about it all evening. It's a toss-up at best.)

At any rate, I'm betting a few rolls of that 'HARBOR'-y goodness would look mighty fine wrapped around the machines in the copy room, or strung between the legs of all the conference room chairs.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure this is definitely why we can't have nice things. C'est la vie.

I'm talking about Amazon -- or more specifically, the 'Recommended for You' bug prank 'feature' on their website. That nasty little bastard can go straight to hell, and I hope as many pitchforks as possible poke it right in the ass on the way.

"I thought from my previous experience that the worst thing Amazon could do is ignore me. I was wrong. So very, very wrong."

Don't get me wrong. I like Amazon; I shop there all the time. And I appreciate automagical systems that can figure out what I might like -- when they actually work, that is. I only ask three things of a recommendation system -- or for that matter, a friend, spouse, or government -- and in the past week, Amazon has failed me on all three. Observe:

1. Pay attention to what I'm telling you.

A few days ago, I logged onto Amazon, looking for some CDs. Here's the conversation (only slightly rephrased) that I had with the recommendation system:

Amazon: Hi, Charlie! Welcome back! Can I help you find a CD?
Me: Okay, sure.
Amazon: I bet you'd like Bridge. It's by Blues Traveler!
Me: Oh. Um, yeah, I don't think so.
Amazon: No problem! How about Save His Soul? It's great!
Me: I dunno -- who's it by?
Amazon: Blues Traveler!
Me: You know, I'm really not a Blues Traveler fan.
Amazon: Say no more! I know of a great CD you'll love!
Me: Fine. Just tell me it's not by-
Amazon: The CD's titled Blues Traveler!
Me: *sigh* Let me guess. It's-
Amazon: That's right! It's by Blues Traveler!!! Gosh!
Me: Look, seriously. Not a Blues Traveler fan. I swear.
Amazon: But you said six months ago that you own Four.
Me: Yeah... I did. But-
Amazon: And that's by Blues Traveler!
Me: I know. But it's my wife's, really. And I listed dozens of CDs I own.
Amazon: I know how you feel! Probably like buying Travelogue: Blues Traveler Classics. Right? Right?
Me: Dude. I gave Four two stars. Out of five. Two.
Amazon: That's more than one! Bet you'd love Blues Traveler's Greatest Hits. Betcha would!
Me: No. I wouldn't. Look, see here? I'm telling you not to use Four to suggest music any more. Okay? I happen to own one disc, but that's it. No more Blues Traveler, got it?
Amazon: Absolutely!
Me: No greatest hits, no tribute albums, no cover bands, nothing. Okay?
Amazon: You're the boss!
Me: Great. So. Do you have any other recommendations?
Amazon: Sure! You're gonna love this CD Zygote! It's super!
Me: Okay, I'm game. What type of mu-
Amazon: It's by John Popper!
Me: Wait. Isn't he-
Amazon: He's the lead singer... of Blues Traveler! Yippee!
Me: God, I hate you.
Amazon: How many copies should I put you down for?
Me: I absolutely fucking hate you.
Amazon: Don't forget One-Click Checkout™! It's the best!

I nearly strangled my monitor with the mouse cord. Evidently, I should stop being so fricking honest with Amazon about the music I technically own.

Lord help me if it ever finds out my wife has the entire Madonna catalog somewhere under our roof. Jesus.

2. Don't throw 'paying attention' back in my face.

I thought from my previous experience that the worst thing Amazon could do is ignore me. I was wrong. So very, very wrong.

See, I'm a big British comedy fan. Mostly the older shows -- Monty Python, Fawlty Towers, Kiss Me Kate, Keeping Up Appearances, just about anything. The subtle stuff, the bawdy stuff, the outlandish stuff, it doesn't much matter. I once even managed to sit through nearly an entire episode of Are You Being Served?.

Just once. And I called in sick to work for the rest of the week. But you get the picture.

So, last night I was poking around Amazon again, trying to find a DVD with clips from the old Alas Smith and Jones show.

I'm not even going to bother trying to describe it, other than to call it 'two-man sketch comedy' and point you to the BBC's take above. My wife walked in last night while I was cackling giddily over a Smith and Jones 'Swiss News' clip on YouTube, and -- after I replayed it and made her watch it -- all she said was:

'It's kind of cute. But not laugh-out-loud cute. You're weird.'

Probably. But that's not important right now. The only important detail to note is that the show featured well-travelled Brit comedy stars Mel Smith and Griff Rhys Jones.

(Hence the name, you see. Clever ones, those British are.)

The astute film buffs among you may remember Mel Smith from his role as 'the Albino' in The Princess Bride, where he tended lovingly to the Pit.... of Despaaaaiiiir.

The less astute among you -- including me -- may not know that there's also a Mel Smith (a different Mel Smith, presumably, what with her evidently being a woman and all) who writes gay cowboy erotica novels, and sells them via Amazon.

Astute or not, I'd like to believe that if my recent browsing history included the phrases 'John Cleese', 'British comedy' and 'Blackadder', but not -- I can't stress this enough, now, NOT -- any phrases such as 'burly cowhand', 'assless chaps', or 'rope my dogie, Tex', then you would probably guess the context of the 'Mel Smith' search correctly.

As opposed to waiting until I logged in tonight and saying:

'Hi! Welcome back! Can we recommend 'To Love a Cowboy' for you today? It's a wild, steamy tale of a young boy and the older man he... no? Okay! How about 'Twice the Cowboy, Twice the Ride'? You'll lose yourself in... not interested? No problem! 'Stallions on the Range' it is!'

A 'Mel Smith' search is one thing. But I still can't see why Amazon loaded up so far on gay cowboy fare. Maybe Blues Traveler fans watch a lot of Brokeback Mountain. I dunno.

3. Make me feel cooler by taking your advice.

Following the Blues Traveler debacle above, I finally managed to straighten Amazon out regarding the kinds of music I like. And generally, those kinds fall into one big category -- old.

I remember the days, back in the mid-to-late '80s, when I would laugh -- laugh! -- at people listening to the Beatles, or the Doors, or early Rolling Stones. 'Geez,' I'd say with a wrinkle-free sneer, 'some of that crap is twenty years old. Get with the times, already!'

I still listen to a lot of the same music I did back then. Which was, it turns out, just about twenty years ago. It seems the sneerer has become the sneeree. Ouch.

In my defense, at least I'm not listening to the drivel you probably cringe over when you think of '80s music. I figure it's pretty hard to point and laugh over somebody 'still' listening to a band, if you have no idea who the hell they were in the first place. I'd like to claim that was a carefully planned strategic decision; actually, it just turns out that I have weird tastes in music as well as comedy, apparently.

The point is, this is where I thought Amazon might actually be able to help me, for once. So while I whipped up an order for a few CDs (by the Broken Homes, Royal Court of China and Buckwheat Zydeco, from 1988, 1989, and 1987, respectively), I asked -- nay, begged -- Amazon to find me something hipper. Something I'd like, but could brag about to all the young whippersnappers at the parties with their droopy trousers and ball caps askew.

So I hit Amazon with my (ever so slightly) more modern preferences. I may have one foot in the auditory grave, but there are some bands I like that have seen the light of this millennium, if only barely. So I rated up my 'cool' bands, like Soul Coughing and the Propellerheads and the Crystal Method. Find me something like these, I told Amazon -- something good that I've never heard of, and that all the cool kids are into these days.

The Recommendorator beeped and booped for a while, and finally spat out a name that wasn't simply the 'limited edition' version of one of the albums I'd claimed. Nor the import issue of the same album. Nor some Blues Traveler shit. Instead, the name was: 'Fluke'.

Nice. I'd never heard of Fluke. The ratings looked good. I saw comparisons to Fatboy Slim, Chemical Brothers and the like -- another positive sign in my book. So I amended my order to include the suggested disc from this hot new act, this 'Fluke' that was no doubt all the rage at the raves and clubs and raves and yes-I-know-I-already-said-raves and clubs and raves and I-just-have-no-freaking-clue-where-else-kids-hang-out-these-days and raves where the kids are hanging out these days. Smugly satisfied with my newly purchased street cred, I eagerly awaited delivery of my CDs.

They came today. Four CDs in total. The old stuff is great -- just like I remembered, catchy and clever and steeped in nostalgia. Better yet, the Fluke CD is awfully good, too. After a couple of turns through the disc, there are only a couple of songs that I'm 'enh' about, and three or four that really stand out as gems. As a newly-bought and never-heard disc, it's really quite a catch.

And as a conversation piece and ticket to street cred, it's a steaming pile of dingo shit.

Turns out this 'new' band that's all the rage with their new CD was, in fact, all the rage back in 1997. They released their first single back in 1988. And the Wikipedia blurb including the CD I bought is two full sections before 'Current work'.

Damn it.

Fluke's not new; I'm just old. And they happened to stay off my radar for, oh, twenty years or so. But I never would have realized the tragic depths of my unhipness, were it not for Amazon's trusty 'Recommendations' system taunting me with decade-old CDs and laughing and pointing.

So thanks for zippo, Amazon. Take your ballad pop and your cowboy porn and your aging techno albums and shove them up your mail slot. Next time I want recommendations, I'm going to fricking Pandora.

(But I can still come back to buy CDs, right? That Super Shipper Saving™ is awesome!!!1!OMGeleventy!)

"If you're not a baseball fan, then nothing I could possibly write is going to make you give a flying badger turd about the career on-base percentage of Atlanta's backup second baseman."

If you're not a baseball fan, then nothing I could possibly write is going to make you give a flying badger turd about the career on-base percentage of Atlanta's backup second baseman. (For the record, it's .330, over a scant 101 at bats in limited action -- but now I'm just torturing you needlessly.)

The point is, I'm making an exception. My latest B&C post isn't about the Braves at all. Mostly, it's not even about baseball. It's about a shirt -- a really, really stupid shirt -- that ESPN sent me for winning a fantasy baseball league on their site. Or, in other words, for wasting my summer and fall knowing useless things like Martin Prado's career on-base percentage.

(Or rather, slightly less useless things, because if I spent any time during the fantasy season worrying about Martin Prado, then I surely wouldn't have earned the shirt in the first place. He's a nice guy, I'm sure, but not exactly the ore from which championships are forged.

Let's just say that if Prado's grandmama plays fantasy baseball, she ain't drafting him, either. Ouch.)

At any rate, if stupid shirts float your boat -- or oodles of sidelong Spinal Tap references, for that matter -- then please have a gander at:

The Answer Is None. None More Dork.

It's a lot more like the typical fodder here than anything baseball-related, I promise. I don't bother bringing up things like on-base percentage at all in the article, so you know it's entirely stat-free. But hopefully, it'll tide you over until I can carve out some time to get something meatier done here. Play ball, kids.

As you may -- or may not -- recall, my dog has lymphoma.

That's not the bit I need help with. I certainly don't expect everyone reading this site to be practicing and expert veterinary oncologists.

This time.

Rather, I need a bit of advice on dealing with the staff at the local animal hospitorium. The front desk ladies, specifically, because they're killing me. Which is their prerogative, I suppose, since they're not committed to the well-being of human visitors. Just my luck to tangle with receptionists whose Hippocratic oath only applies to tabby cats and stray shih tzus. Super.

"Just my luck to tangle with receptionists whose Hippocratic oath only applies to tabby cats and stray shih tzus. Super."

Anyway, the way they're killing me is this: every week, for each of the last sixteen weeks, I've wrangled my plucky mutt to the animal clinic for some doggy chemo care. Every week, they ask for my name, which is reasonable. Every week, they ask for my pet's name -- which I suppose is necessary, should the crazy cat ladies around the neighborhood start hauling in new kitties every other Tuesday. So while it's tedious to give them the same old boring name every time, they get a pass for asking.

But then, every single stupid week, at the beginning of every visit, they ask:

"And are you still at <my address for the past five years>. And is your phone number still <the only phone number I've had this millennium>?"

Mind you, there are only three or four ladies working the desk at this particular facility. It's fairly large, by animal hospital standards, but it's not that big. We're not talking about the Meow-o Clinic here; I see these same women over and over and over, every trip. And I understand that they see an awful lot of under-the-weathered-animal owners -- but they also ask the questions after they've pulled up my dog's record.

So every week, they see 'APPT. FOR WEEKLY CHEMO' and 'LAST VISIT: CHEMO LAST WEEK' and 'REMINDER: SCHEDULE NEXT APPT NEXT WEEK'. And still, they smile sweetly and stare at me and coo, "So, have you packed up your house and canceled your phone plan any time in the last hundred and twenty hours or so? No? Well, I'll just update your record, then, thanks."

It would be different if we hadn't stepped paw in their lobby for a few months. Or if I were leaving the dog behind and needed to be notified, rather than waiting to take her back home when she's done. Or -- seriously, or -- if all of the appointment reminders and notifications the hospital leaves weren't sent via email, which the triage troupe never asks about. After a couple of months of "No, I haven't freaking moved since last Tuesday," I decided to have a little fun with them.

And that's where I need the help. I'm starting to run out of smartass replies with which to entertain myself.

Oh, sure, the first couple of times were a larf. I said that, oh yes, indeed I had happened to move, and patiently recited back the hospital's own address and phone number as my own. For most of the receptionists, the flicker of recognition (and administrative frown following) were near immediate. One lady only caught it in the middle of asking what zip code that is, and heeeeey, just what are you trying to pull, sir?

(That's the nice thing about being a smartass at an animal hospital; it's your dog or cat that's being treated. They're not going to take it out on you, like they might at a doctor's office, or even a restaurant. What are they gonna do -- spit in my dog's chemo cocktail? Bichon, please.)

I lay low for a few weeks, hoping the desk staff would forget which guy was the jerkbag. Sure enough, they were back to asking me the old routine questions sans stinkeye before the month was out. I took the opportunity to tell one of them, "Oooh, I'm glad you reminded me!" I explained how I was just about to move -- to Nome, Alaska, as a matter of fact, and there really isn't much veterinary coverage up there, and I really like the care my dog is getting here, so... how much postage would she think it would be to overnight a Staffordshire terrier round-trip every Wednesday? And how many holes would she suggest punching in the box? And should I insure the package for just the value of the dog, or should I include the cost of the Snausage tub I'd have to include, so the pooch didn't go hungry?

That was a couple of weeks before Christmas. Since then, when that woman sees me coming, she glares at me and puts her 'Next Window' sign up in a huff. I'm pretty sure I can't go back to that particular well again.

Still, that leaves a few hopefully-still-unsuspecting rubes ready for a ruffling. I'm just not sure quite how I want to go about it yet. I've thought about welling up and pouting next time one of them asks my address, so I can explain that my wife kicked me out and all I have is the dog now, and I'm moving around a bit, but that if they want to reach me, they can always come knocking on my VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER!

That might be a bit much, though. Eventually somebody will sabotage my dog, just to get the hell rid of me. So I should probably find something more subtle, but still entertaining. And I only have until next Wednesday to do it. I was a good boy at the appointment today; when they asked about whether my various life details had suddenly changed, I just gritted my teeth and assured them, calmly but firmly, that they hadn't.

But I can't do it two weeks in a row. There's only so much conforming to polite society that one smartass can bear. I just need to find an acceptable -- yet still entertaining! -- level of snark, and get it out of my system. I only hope such a thing exists.

You know, for the dog's sake.

Most Wednesdays. According to my New Years resolution, at least.

Anyway, once I was squeaky cleaned and toweled dry, I ventured off to find clean underpants. They're the foundation of a healthy winter ensemble. But I found, to my still-dripping dismay, that there were no clean underpants in the drawer. Socks, yes. T-shirts, sure. Some sort of weird multicolored fuzzy thing that might be a scarf -- or a month-old sub sandwich? Check. But underpants were conspicuously and troublingly absent.

"Somehow -- was it my darting eyes, the nervous tics, or the periodic dancing-Elaine-Benes-esque kicks I used to subtly extract my underwear from up my netherhole? -- people seemed clued in to my silky little secret."

That is to say, normal underpants were absent. The only crotch-covering clothing in the underwear drawer -- just sitting there, waiting, smirking at me -- was the pair of emergency boxers. Silk boxers. Red silk boxers, with little hearts and "I LOVE YOU!"s printed all over.

Clearly, I faced a dilemma.

Would I don the cartoonish monstrosities, normally reserved for a ten-minute annual Valentine's Day stint?

(Note: Don't ask about the stint. Just... don't.)

Or would I choose one of the other, even less attractive, options? Wearing dirty undies? Going without altogether? Walking downstairs to the basement and fishing fresh underpants out of the dryer?

Jesus. I'd already gotten out of bed and showered. What do I look like over here, fricking Superman?

So I took what I thought was the easy way out, jumped legs-first into those novelty boxers, and crammed clothes on over top. It wasn't my finest moment -- and I had no delusions about what I was getting myself into. When a woman slinks herself into a set of silky undies, she feels sexy, and pretty, and self-confident. When I yank a flimsy set of love pants around my waist, all I feel is drafty. And bunchy. And self-conscious, to boot.

The whole rest of the day, as I mingled at work and outside with the normals, I could swear that they knew. Somehow -- was it my darting eyes, the nervous tics, or the periodic dancing-Elaine-Benes-esque kicks I used to subtly extract my underwear from up my netherhole? -- people seemed clued in to my silky little secret. I couldn't get out of the office fast enough tonight, so I could race home and get out of those damned telltale pants. Now I'm finally, mercifully home, and free of their heart-encrusted clutches.

Still, I put in a full day today. And I'm a lazy guy. So it's not like I'm going to bother to walk all the way down to the basement for fresh reinforcements. That's crazy talk. But the missus won't let me into the bed without underpants -- I mean, it's not Valentine's Day yet, now, is it? What's a sorry, slothful silkophobe to do? It's getting awfully drafty 'round these parts, and the dog is starting to give me funny looks.

Good thing there's a brand new roll of paper towels on the holder in the kitchen. I'll wrap a few dozen of those around me toga-style and bluff my way into bed. And maybe by morning I'll have mustered the energy to swap out my Bounty boxers for something more conventional.

Either that, or I'll be the most absorbent son of a bitch in the office tomorrow. At least they won't catch me sweating during another long staff meeting. And that's the sort of 'silky smooth' I can snuggle up next to.

I put 'captain' in quotes because there's really not a lot of captainosity involved. I pay the team fee to the league. And I send out emails every week to badger people to show up. That's the full extent of my 'captainly' duties. Just once, you'd think I'd get to perform a civil marriage service or keelhaul a mutineer or something. I'd even settle for getting to wear the funny hat and drinking rum on the job. But no.

"Just once, you'd think I'd get to perform a civil marriage service or keelhaul a mutineer or something."

The trickiest part of my responsibilities is getting the right number and proportion of people to play. It's regulation volleyball, and a co-ed league, which means that ideally, we need six players -- two or three women and three or four men -- to field a full squad. Six people working as a team is what you call a 'system' -- the front left, middle and right and back left, middle and right positions have certain responsibilities, and each gets just enough space to cover that we can mostly do it without calling time outs for emergency CPR treatment.

Less than six people is what's known in volleyball parlance as a 'screaming bumblefuck'. Does the rightish-back-middly person cover the corner on this play? Who comes over to block the middle when the setter's playing double duty on the wing? Why the hell is our server curled up in a fetal ball on the ten-foot line chanting, 'so many holes... so many holes...'? And where do they keep the oxygen tank and Band-Aids around this damned gym, anyway?

Needless to say, I do my level best to ensure that six warm-to-tepid bodies show up every week. Mostly, that's accomplished by keeping four hundred and thirteen people on the active roster, and begging for players several days in advance. But there's still the question of the ratio of attendees, and -- as is always the case in a life like mine -- we can never seem to find enough women. If you're sporting less than two in our league, your team is penalized a few points every game. Also, the refs say disparaging things to you. And the girls on the opposing team give you strange looks, like maybe you locked your team's women in the trunk of your car, and they're next. It can be awfully distracting, when all you're trying to do is play your game and focus on teamwork and drown out the muffled sounds coming from the back of your Honda in the parking lot. Enough, already.

Which brings us to this afternoon, when one of the regular guys called to ask whether we needed him tonight. Some other obligation -- a late night at the office or a pregnant wife or massive internal bleeding or something; I really wasn't paying much attention -- was vying for his time, but he said he'd try to swing by if we were going to be short-handed tonight.

So I tallied up the email replies I'd received for the week, and found only four definite 'yes' calls. Plus me is just five, so I let him know that we could absolutely use his services, once the project was finished or the baby popped out or his intestines were sewn back up, whatever. Since I was tearing him away from something he might deem 'important', I tried to soften the blow with a little humor.

"Definitely show up if you can. You know how we miss you when you're not around."

He chuckled politely, and probably thought that was the end of the conversation. Which it should have been. But I was busy doing math in my head, and realized that though we'd have six people with him, we still only had one girl showing up. Without bothering to explain this line of reasoning, I said:

"Although, you'd be more useful if you had boobs."

Another chuckle -- which I later realized was far more nervous than the first. At the time, though, I was drunk on the high of getting two laughs in a row. The jester in me took over, and I went for the hat trick:

"Of course, I've always said that about you."

Silence. Probably of the stunned variety.

I said goodbye and hung up the phone, figuring I'd just bombed the joke. It wasn't until I replayed the conversation in my head that I realized how batshit crazy it must have sounded. Now I wonder whether the guy will bother to show up tonight at all. Or ever, frankly.

If he does show up, it could get pretty awkward. And if he shows up wearing a padded bra, it's going to get really awkward.

But hey -- if he's convincing enough, at least we'll get the points back for the extra girl. Sometimes, even making an ass of myself has a silver lining.

Not often. Just sometimes.

But even I have my limits. And one of those was sorely tested at lunch today.

See, I have this theory. It's more of a governing rule, really, and that rule is this:

'The packaging of a food or food-like object should never be the only force holding the stupid thing together.'

"If it shows up quickly and fits in my mouth, that's usually plenty good enough for me."

Maybe I'm being unreasonable. But that's just how I feel. And so does the bottom half of the grande burrito I bought for lunch today. And so does my desk. And my keyboard. And the new shirt I was wearing today. We took a little vote around twelve-thirty, and they were all on my side.

The top half of the burrito abstained. But considering that it had just toppled over and slathered itself all over that desk and keyboard and shirt the moment I peeled back the aluminum foil, I'm guessing it had a different opinion.

So, apparently, did Senor Chucklenuts at the taco hut where I bought it. Why neatly seal up a burrito with its own tortilla, he must have asked himself, when you can cram the ingredients together all higgledy-piggledy and cover it with foil and be done with it? Maybe the guy can send out those grease-powered time bombs and live with himself. But I don't see how.

And now I need another shirt. Also, my desk smells like guacamole. Plus, I think there's a bean lodged under my space bar. I think I'll find a screwdriver and pry it off the keyboard.

And shove it up a chihuahua's ass. Just on principle. Next time, I'm buying a damned Whopper.

Not 'back with a vengeance', perhaps -- the vengeance I bought on Amazon hasn't been delivered yet; probably held up in customs or something -- but I'm back. And when that vengeance shows up -- well, whoo, geez. Look out. Mercy.

In the meantime, here's this:

Mind you, I'm not saying it was a bad gift. And certainly not unappreciated. I'm just saying... well. All I know about scones is that they're what prim, upper-crust old British ladies like to eat with their tea. I fail to qualify on a number of key points in that description. I can manage the 'old' -- and on a good day, maybe the 'crust' part. That's about it.

"When your husband starts doing crazy shit like whipping out mixing bowls and preheating ovens, anything could be happening. Raging paranoia is a perfectly reasonable reaction."

Still, when life hands you lemons, you make lemonade. When life hands you a scone kit with miniature jars of spreadable lemon curd, you make the scones and spread the curd and try not to think too hard about whether your pinky is sticking out when you're washing it down with milk straight from the carton.

(Another reason I'd never make it in proper society. Why dirty all those glasses, just for a quick sip of early morning moo juice? It's not like I have the mouth cooties.

Upper-crusters make things so damned complicated.)

Anyway, this past Sunday I woke up hungry and desperate and with no properly pre-processed food in the house. So I followed the directions (more or less), and made the scones. In the oven. All by myself.

My wife was gobsmacked. And understandably so.

For you see, though I'm a fair fan of several Food Network shows -- Iron Chef, Dinner: Impossible, and Good Eats (obviously) -- my own culinary skillz are sadly lacking. As in non-existent. As in, the only time I would normally step foot into the kitchen is to retrieve the pizza takeout menu.

So I wasn't offended when the missus refused to try a scone until I'd eaten a couple myself. I don't know whether she figured they were physically inedible, or thought I was trying to deliberately poison her. When your husband starts doing crazy shit like whipping out mixing bowls and preheating ovens, anything could be happening. Raging paranoia is a perfectly reasonable reaction.

Eventually, though, she tried a bite. Evidently, she'd never encountered scones, either, because she said:

"Hey, these aren't bad. Scones are sort of like biscuits, huh?"

Oh, dear. That's where my Food Network quasi-knowledge kicked in. I gave my wife a kindly smile and a pat on the head, and proceeded to lay out for her the real culinary genealogy of scones.

Biscuits, I explained in my most professorly tone, are prepared using something called "the biscuit method". But there's also -- as all well-traveled bakers know -- a little procedure called "the muffin method". I gave her a moment to digest these fairly self-evident facts before moving on.

(And also to make sure I hadn't mixed them up in the explanation. Before that morning, remember, my personal breakfast food preparation experience had been limited to "the Pop-Tart method" and "the leftover pasta reheating procedure".)

I went on to assure her, based on the events of the morning, that the preparation of scones clearly bears a far greater resemblence to the latter than the former.

Then she said what I was really hoping she wouldn't: "Okay... why?"

Shit. It's not like I know what the hell the muffin and biscuit methods are -- only that they exist. I was kind of hoping that would be enough for her. But no. She actually can cook, so she was interested in the gory details. Damn my pedantic streak. Now I had to come clean.

"Well... er, hrm. You see, the 'biscuit method', as I learned it years ago, involves, uh, breaking open the can in the fridge and pulling out the raw biscuits to bake. On a baking sheet.

And the 'muffin method' is completely different. There, you... well, you take the bag of muffin mix out of the box, and mix in water and those little blueberry-flavored rabbit turd-looking things, and spoon it into muffin cups. That's the classical 'muffin method'. As taught by Julia Child, I believe. Or maybe Betty Crocker."

She wasn't buying a word, obviously. This was turning into that history essay test I thought I could fake my way through by knowing there was such a thing as the Industrial Revolution. The devil, I discovered, is apparently in the details.

But why quit when I'm behind? I could still back up the original nonsense I pulled out of my ass.

"As you may have noticed, the scones kit consisted chiefly of a bag of scone mix -- to which I added water, and spooned into a pan to bake. Clearly, given the steps in the preparation, the method for making scones is more similar to muffins than biscuits."

I gave her the 'clearly' shrug, to drive home whatever nonsensical point I may have just made. She shook her head sadly and frowned. I shrugged again.

"I mean, clearly."

Nothing. She's a hard woman, that wife of mine. I conceded defeat, as gracefully and nobly as I could.

"Oh, just eat your damned scone, smartypants."

So in the grand scheme of things, I still don't know how the hell to make real scones -- or biscuits, or muffins, or anything else, for that matter. But I did prepare my own Sunday breakfast, and it didn't kill me, and I haven't horked it back up yet. I'd call that a win.

Plus, now the wife is worried I might actually spend time in the kitchen again soon. One more bout of baking 'n' bullshitting, and she'll have the pizza delivery joint on speed dial daily, just to shut me up. I call that little plan my "scone method". Look for it in a cookbook near you.

Just for instance:

"The forecast calls for heavy taunting throughout the afternoon, with a one hundred percent chance of embarrassment overnight and into morning."

Today around noon, a few of us at work were sitting at the office lunch table talking about the blizzard heading our way tonight. One of the guys down the hall arrived late, and nodded as he sat down beside me.

Late Coworker: How's the weather?
Me: Four to six inches, apparently.

Dead silence around the table.

(Female) Coworker at Table: WHAT?
Me: Um, I... what?
Late Coworker: I said, 'How's it hanging?'
Me: Oh. Damn.

*the usual laughing and pointing*

Me: Well. It's a lot less than four-to-six now.

Naturally, the aftermath has been excruciating. People have already stopped by my desk to ask whether I plan on any 'overnight accumulation', whether the 'forecast' depends on how much 'barometric pressure' has built up, and all manner of unspeakable acts involving snow plows, salt trucks, and a Doppler radar dish. One guy even pulled me aside to inform me that the Eskimos have fifty words for it. Frightening.

I suppose it could have been worse. I could have said, 'flurries likely' or 'a squall advisory for travelers'. Or even 'less than an inch and it probably won't stick'. Yes, that would have definitely been worse. Thank goodness there's a Nor'easter on the way, and not just a dusting. I might be getting cracks about 'reduced visibility', to boot.

Meanwhile, my coworkers' cups iceth over with cackling glee. The forecast calls for heavy taunting throughout the afternoon, with a one hundred percent chance of embarrassment overnight and into morning. I'm thinking of calling in sick tomorrow and letting things cool off over the weekend. Call it my own special kind of 'snow day'. Meh.