Beat But Not Broken

My new job is an ass-kicker...quite literally. Part of my new job is to learn how to “bring the peace” in any given situation, including those that require some hands on assistance. This is done so that in the end I can return safely home from what may be one of the most dangerous jobs in America. However, the problem these days is that after 6 weeks, I am still in the tear-down phase of training...or as I like to think of it, the beatdown phase.

Every single muscle in my body has been the victim of some sort of manipulation or down-right ritualistic abuse. After 8 years in the military, I figured that I had a pretty good handle on my musculo-skeletal system...I was wrong. Aside from the push-up, sit-up and “jumping-jack”, most exercises are simple bastardizations of these tried and true favorites, and I once believed that I had seen them all...

The new exercise that I was most graciously subject to this week is a completely sadistic twist on the old school “mountain climber”. With the “mountain climber”, you get into a push-up position, and then begin to alternate your knees to your chest (imagine a sprinter in the blocks right before the gun goes off)...the result, aside from a lot of hurt, is that you look like you are running in place with your hands on the ground.

Easy enough. I know that my thighs, calves and shoulders are going to be sore the next day, and that I am going to cry like a school-girl during the actual exercise.

Enter the, “I don't know what the fuck to call it exercise.” Get down like you are going to do a push-up, but instead of doing push-ups, twist your trunk and place the outer thigh of you right leg on the ground while keeping your left foot in place. Now return to the push-up position and do the same with the outer thigh of your left leg while keeping your right foot in place. Repeat...over and over and over and over and over and over.

Well, the next morning, thanks to the “I don't know what the fuck to call it exercise”, I woke up with the most excruciating pain in my “I don't know what the fuck to call them muscles in my ass/hip area.” I know I'm getting older, but WTF?

I figured I had just about seen it all. I guess not...

New Post over at PaleRoller.com

Here is a recent post over at PaleRoller.com, that explains my recent slow-down in production...but as my energy returns, I shall begin posting more frequently.

http://www.paleroller.com/2009/09/from-stay-at-home-dad-to-deadbeat-dad.html

Take Care.

Started New Job Very Busy

I started a new job that consumes most, if not all, of my time these days. I have been working on my next "real" post which should happen sometime this week. In the meantime, check out this one from someone very close to me.

Or check out the rest her posts at http://www.thephdmommy.com

Alarming News for Bird Lovers

My wife is always amazed at my love of birds. I usually have to correct her and explain that my love of birds only extends so far as birds of prey, although I do love watching just about any other bird out there. I think it's the twitchiness, or their ability to fly, or maybe the twitchiness. I am not sure what it is about our fine feathered friends that gets me going, but I like them. And that is where the fondness ends.

I am in no way, shape, or form interested in the mating habits of the red-breasted warbler, nor am I interested in how they tend their young. My fascination pretty much ends where that of a biologist begins. I'm like the woman driving the Ferrari to the PTA meeting; I don't care how it works, I just care that it's pretty. That's right, I “went” there. And given the southerly swing of my pecks in recent years, I'm apparently becoming more like that woman every year. But, back to the birds.

My wife, in the past, has even gone so far as to recommend that I “study” birds, but again, I am in no mood to discover the bird equivalent of a cloaca and bury my finger in their to determine the sex of a bird. It's just not my cup of tea. It doesn't “tickle” my fancy. As such, I was both shocked and disgusted today when I discovered one of the most disturbing facts known to man.

BIRDS HAVE BUTTS.

What follows may be too graphic for some of my readers, and parental guidance is suggested.

This morning my wife and I headed to the local zoo, as we have done in the past, to spend the morning checking in on some of the inmates and have a romp in the water feature at the children's zoo. Well, the last time we did this, Catchr had a blast watching the penguins swim by the glass and flip him the bird. So, we headed straight for their cellblock, only to find out the disgusting truth about these particular “animals”. It appears that they may, indeed, actually be little people in tuxedos that have an abnormal affinity for aquatic adventures.

In support of my conjecture, I give you exhibit A:

Now, I don't know about you, but I was always a little bit disgusted when bird layed a turd in my general vicinity. However, I never knew that they were, in fact, using human assholes to shit on all of our landmarks, monuments, cars, and in some unfortunate circumstances, us. I now believe that birds have an intelligence that is far beyond that which we could imagine. How does all that guano hit my car in the parking lot, and not a drop hit the tarmac? Why do seagulls always seem to fly directly overhead?

And why does that penguin at the zoo have a little human asshole poking out of his fine feathered tuxedo?

It's Pronounced, "Thermometer"

This morning, while doing dishes I began to feel a little hot under the collar.; not emotionally hot..environmentally hot. Now being as I was not wearing a collared shirt, or any shirt for that matter, I began to wonder if I might be in the throws of a panic attack. This concerned me, as I had seen many episodes of the Sopranos and knew that this might disturb the pecking order of my family. Furthermore, never having experienced a panic attack, I began to pace the kitchen wondering if there might be some sure-fire way of ascertaining my current condition without divulging the details of this episode to my wife.

I looked to the clock above the sink. “Nope, time is still moving at 60 seconds per minute.” I then surveyed my wrist and neck, searching for a pounding/racing heartbeat only to feel the soft lubdub of normalcy under my sweaty fingertips. Searching for my four-legged diagnostician, I pleaded, “What is happening to me?” But she simply went about staring blankly out the dining room's french doors.

As I made my way to the living room I spied the indoor/outdoor thermometer on the bookshelf. The temperature read 79 degrees inside, but I was sure that it must be 80 degrees. I felt 80 degrees. I couldn't believe that my wife and I had fallen victim to the unscrupulous madmen at Oregon Scientific. Surely I know the difference between 79 and 80 degrees, and these bastards had sent a lemon to the Jarvis house.

(I am surely not suggesting that everyone is out to get me. Some already have. It is the rest of them with whom I am currently concerned.)

As I inspected the thermometer, I began to craft, the outline for an experiment that would expose the phonies at Oregon Scientific once and for all. I had to first leave the confines of my cocoon and venture onto the front porch, amidst all the prying eyes, and retrieve the outside half of my faulty indoor/outdoor thermometer system.

Once safely inside I placed the outdoor probe next to the hopelessly inaccurate indoor unit. I had to ascertain if the faulty mechanism was housed in both units, or if the sinister scientists had merely worked their magic on the indoor probe. While I waited, I set about to find the armpit thermometer my wife had recently purchased for use on our son. (Being a man, it is difficult for me to bring myself to check my son's temperature “old school”, so my wife purchased the armpit thermometer to save us from future therapy sessions.) Once found, I sat and waited patiently for the outdoor probe to come to room temperature; for comparison.

My family and I live in Texas and as you might guess, it is hot outside...very hot...flamin' the fellars hot, if you catch my drift. So by hour three, I was inclined to put the thermometer into the refrigerator for a spell, to help bring it down to room temperature. That did the trick and I began my rigorous investigation.

Placing the indoor and outdoor modules side-by-side, I noticed that both were reading 79 degrees, yet, as I was still feeling 80 degrees, I had to conclude that Oregon Scientific had indeed given me two faulty thermometers. The only problem was that to build my case, I would need the armpit thermometer as a control for the experiment. However, there was no way to get a reading of the ambient temperature, given that the thermometer was designed to measure readings closer to that of the human body, and do so in 30 seconds. Therefore I placed the armpit thermometer exactly where recommended, and proceeded to replace the outdoor probe (from Oregon Scientific) in my other armpit.

After 30 seconds, the armpit thermometer signaled the completion of its task with a charming little beep. 97.9 degrees. That seemed about right, as I tend to run a little cool. The outdoor thermometer was still reading 79 degrees. As it was most likely not designed for its current duty, I decided to sit back and let it do its work uninterrupted, lest I be absurdly accused of favoritism or bias.

By hour three, the temperature was reading 94 degrees and I was now beginning to chafe quite heavily. This was obviously another insidious plot to thwart my efforts at scientific inquiry. Furthermore, my wife was due home any minute and it would already be difficult enough explaining why I had failed to do the dishes, without having to explain why her sweaty, chafing husband was sitting on the floor all day with a thermometer in his armpit with the beginnings of a nice rash.

You win this round Oregon Scientific.

For The Ladies & Gentlemen

In an attempt to add some credibility to yesterday's post and ensure that I did not take too many liberties with the facts, I did a simple search today to expose the evil truth that I revealed.

Exhibit A: http://www.steadyhealth.com/My_penis_and_testicles_shrink_to_almost_child_size_proportions_while_exercising_t91703_st60.html

The above is a horribly funny forum progression that I found through Google search. It almost seems sad to share this with the female readers, but I feel it is necessary to get the truth out into the open. Besides, what doesn't kill us makes us stronger...not necessarily larger, but stronger indeed.

The other reason for this post is to address the misconception that men do not share their feelings. The problem is not that they don't share their feelings, it's that when they do, you have discussions like the above. I have read this particular page of this particular forum about five times, and still feel myself running out of breath with laughter. I imagine the guys writing in during the middle of the night, while their wives are asleep and the blanket of night can hide their shame and embarrassment.

I have never purchased a men's health magazine and the reason why is because I feel I do not have that certain something that prevents me from discussing medical issues with my doctor and relationship issues with my spouse. So ladies, if your husband/boyfriend comes home with some type of men's health magazine, you may want to find out why. I mean, do you really want to find him under the covers, with a flashlight, writing about his doodle on the internet? It may just end up on some asshole's blog.

Checks and Balances: Who's Yer Daddy?

I have an interview scheduled for next Friday, two days AFTER my final police department interviews, with a local financial firm. The timing is impeccable. It will give me the opportunity to really not give a damn during the interview process (unless the police department tells me to go shit in my hat). Maybe I'll waltz into the office wearing nothing but a big smile and a light coat of oil. I imagine that the security guards would try and stop me from making it through the lobby, into the elevator and all the way to the 15^th floor.

Or would they? It has always been my contention that if one were about to get their ass kicked, they should simply rip the clothing from their body. This creates two dilemmas for your opponent. 1) Where do I hit this guy without making it look like we're starring in some low-budget Michael Lucas film; and 2) If this naked guy somehow manages to beat my ass, he's naked...then what? In a fight there generally tends to be a lot of touching. I think it's a safe bet that only the most skilled of pugilists are going to endeavor to whoop your ass while you're nude.

As I make it to the 15^th floor, I am now a glistening mass of heart-pounding enthusiasm. The light coat of oil now mixing with my heavy perspiration, I quickly look down only to realize one sad simple fact. I am man. Well, at least I was man when I exited the car and began my adventure to the 15^th floor. Now, however, it appears that my body has played an evil trick on me. The man that left his vehicle parked, somewhat illegally, on the ground floor has been reduced to what can only be described as a finger food. Thank you sympathetic nervous system, for thwarting, once again, my plans for world domination.

You see, the irony of manhood is that the very activities that men display to impress upon the ladies a certain level of bravado, are the same activities that require ALL of which a man is made.

(Dearest female readers, please understand that the secret which is about to be revealed below is the most damning and emasculating to the male of your species. Most men dare not talk of it for fear of being branded an outcast and traded from the team.)

When men are endeavoring to gain your fancy, they may indulge in certain feats of strength and displays of bravado in an attempt to prove their virility, without having to display actual “proof”. The problem, however, is that in an attempt to “give it their all”, the male's body does just that; pulling blood from idle parts of the anatomy and sending it to more “active” parts of the body. Now, in the rare case of the three-legged racer or the man whose endowment allows him to pummel his opponent with his appendage, this may not be as much of an issue, as their bodies have certainly grown accustomed to the necessity for increased blood flow to the region. But for other 99.36% of adult males, this is not the case, and there may be some longitudinal sacrifices that must be made.

Understand, that I am in no way condoning my females readers to set up a series of short sprints or side-straddle-hops prior to assessing a potential mate's fitness for the role. I simply wanted to clarify the betrayal I experienced in the elevator on the 15^th floor.

“Who's your daddy?”, asks the human body of the human mind.

And the mind's answer is inevitably, “You are.”

One must remember that life is a series of checks and balances. Checks and balances, indeed.