I can never find Q-Tips in a supermarket.
Seriously, trying to find Q-Tips at my local Ralphs is a skill that escapes me. I just can't do it. The skin care aisle? Not there. The bathroom products aisle? Not there. The aisle with all the maple syrups? I never expect to find it there, but when you've gone down 15 aisles and you can't find it, you'll try anything.
And here's the weird thing: Most of the staff don't know where the Q-Tips are either. Ask Sam the box boy guy where Q-Tips can be located and you're met with a bunch of "um...um...um..."s and a finger pointing you toward the light fixture on the ceiling.
Am I supposed to pray for guidance in finding out where the Q-Tips might be?
I can never find Q-Tips. I can find lean pockets, shredded cheese, Diet Wild Cherry Pepsi, sliced turkey, Propel Fitness Water, Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, and generic brand dishwashing liquid -- all in 46 seconds -- but I spend another 45 minutes searching for the swabs necessary to clean my ears.
And here's another weird thing: Do you know who always ends up knowing where to find Q-Tips? The butcher. Don't ask me why. Perhaps it's in their DNA. Perhaps it's because so many people began asking them out of desperation that knowing where the Q-Tips are located became part of the unofficial Butchers' Code of Conduct. Whatever the reason, butchers will always lead you right.
Now, allow me to address the following questions you no doubt have:
1) If Q-Tips are so hard to find and the butcher always knows where they are, why don't you just save yourself time and ask the butcher in the first place?
Because I stubbornly refuse to believe that I can't find the Q-Tips on my own. I mean, it's common sense. I'm college-educated, resourceful...I should be able to find the damn things on my own!! And God willing, one day -- with much determination -- I will.
And that victory will be sweet.
2) Why don't you just write down where the butcher tells you to go to find the Q-Tips and remember for next time?
Because by the time I come across the Q-Tips, I'm so elated that my supermarket experience has come to an end that I just grab a box, race to the checkout stand, and get the hell out of there. It's only when I'm in my car halfway home that I realize:
I have no idea where I've just been.
And 3) Since it always takes you so long to find the Q-Tips, when you finally do so, do you splurge and buy the name brand?
Hell no!! The cheapy store brand is fine with me!!
After all people, we're in a recession. And times are tough.
Besides: I don't want my friends who may be struggling financially to come to my home and see my fancy, more expensive Q-Tips.
It would be like rubbing my success in their face.
And that would be rude.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
According to a new study, denial can bring about marital bliss.
Well that's nice to know.
The key to a successful marriage:
Avoiding reality.
Nice.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Doing Laundry...The Guy Way: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
There's a societal practice I've never been able to understand, and that is the whole "separate the whites from the colors when doing the laundry" concept. I mean honestly, what's the point? Your colors are going to fade regardless, and as long as you turn the washer knob to "cold", your whites won't become pinks if you've accidentally thrown in a pair of your red Christmas socks.
(Note: I don't actually own a pair of red Christmas socks. But if I did, there'd be no shame in it).
I do my laundry in the time-honored tradition of men: I cram everything into one machine, whites and colors combined, my own little melting pot in my apartment complex's laundry room. Then I pour some laundry detergent, never bothering with the measuring cup (I'm a man, and men have a sixth sense when it comes to right measurements), and wash everything in cold water.
Three simple steps.
And I've never seen a man do his laundry any other way. Separating the whites from the colors? That's insane!! First, it requires more than one load. Second, how the hell do you determine whether your mainly white shirt with some print on it is either a "white" or a "color?" Third, if you live in an apartment complex, that costs more quarters!!
Times are tough enough.
And then there's the whole "choice of water temperature" thing that's honestly a waste. It's bad enough that you've separated by color, but now you got to make separate "cold", "warm" and "hot" piles as well? And you wonder why little kids run away screaming when their moms tell them it's time they did their own laundry?
And then there's detergent. The following...are my thoughts:
A) Just pour the damn stuff in. Measuring cups are for wussies. It displays a lack of confidence in one's self.
And B) Forget all this environmentally friendly nonsense. I'm sick and tired of someone spewing off how I'm solely to blame for killing Mother Nature because I'm using Earth-harming ingredients found in Tide. Never mind that these same people drive gas-guzzling cars and frequently use aerosol cans. Because I don't use "Nature Knows Best" laundry liquid, I'm the bad guy. Get off your high horse. Jesus.
All I'm saying is, the guy way to doing laundry captures the true spirit of a man:
His desire to do things simply.
His desire to do things quickly.
And his complete and utter obliviousness to the world around him.
The guy way of doing laundry.
Hear us roar.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
A woman recently spent tens of thousands of dollars in plastic surgery to look like her daughter.
Here's guessing the daughter will need to spend thousands of dollars in therapy.
Like my old high school math teacher once told me:
Son, one day you're gonna realize: People...are idiots.
Believe me Mr. Kawamoto, I realize.
(Note: I don't actually own a pair of red Christmas socks. But if I did, there'd be no shame in it).
I do my laundry in the time-honored tradition of men: I cram everything into one machine, whites and colors combined, my own little melting pot in my apartment complex's laundry room. Then I pour some laundry detergent, never bothering with the measuring cup (I'm a man, and men have a sixth sense when it comes to right measurements), and wash everything in cold water.
Three simple steps.
And I've never seen a man do his laundry any other way. Separating the whites from the colors? That's insane!! First, it requires more than one load. Second, how the hell do you determine whether your mainly white shirt with some print on it is either a "white" or a "color?" Third, if you live in an apartment complex, that costs more quarters!!
Times are tough enough.
And then there's the whole "choice of water temperature" thing that's honestly a waste. It's bad enough that you've separated by color, but now you got to make separate "cold", "warm" and "hot" piles as well? And you wonder why little kids run away screaming when their moms tell them it's time they did their own laundry?
And then there's detergent. The following...are my thoughts:
A) Just pour the damn stuff in. Measuring cups are for wussies. It displays a lack of confidence in one's self.
And B) Forget all this environmentally friendly nonsense. I'm sick and tired of someone spewing off how I'm solely to blame for killing Mother Nature because I'm using Earth-harming ingredients found in Tide. Never mind that these same people drive gas-guzzling cars and frequently use aerosol cans. Because I don't use "Nature Knows Best" laundry liquid, I'm the bad guy. Get off your high horse. Jesus.
All I'm saying is, the guy way to doing laundry captures the true spirit of a man:
His desire to do things simply.
His desire to do things quickly.
And his complete and utter obliviousness to the world around him.
The guy way of doing laundry.
Hear us roar.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
A woman recently spent tens of thousands of dollars in plastic surgery to look like her daughter.
Here's guessing the daughter will need to spend thousands of dollars in therapy.
Like my old high school math teacher once told me:
Son, one day you're gonna realize: People...are idiots.
Believe me Mr. Kawamoto, I realize.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Making S'mores For The Very First Time: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
Last weekend, my fiancee Ramona had a friend who celebrated her 30th birthday by camping at Malibu State Park. Ramona and I were two of several friends to be invited to join in the celebration and hike, barbecue, play games, share ghost stories around the campfire...
...and make s'mores.
For those international readers of mine who don't know what s'mores are, I've invited my good friends from Wikipedia to explain that s'mores "are a traditional campfire treat popular in the United States and Canada, consisting of a roasted marshmallow and a layer of chocolate sandwiched between two pieces of graham cracker."
And it's here that I have a confession:
Until last weekend, I had never made a s'more around the campfire.
Never. Not once.
And here's the weird thing: I've been camping a fair number of times as a kid; to Yosemite, Bishop, state parks and so forth. And at many of these outings, a roaring campfire could be found. But for whatever reason -- a worry about safety, a severe marshmallow shortage in the area I happened to be in at the time -- I had never once had the opportunity to make a campfire s'more.
So there was I last weekend, at age 29, about to make my first chocolate, marshmallow and graham cracker concoction.
And at first, I wasn't too concerned. After all, I've seen this done on TV plenty of times. You roast the marshmallow on the campfire, blow out the flame, stick a piece of chocolate on the graham cracker, place the roasted marshmallow on the chocolate, add another graham cracker, and boom, you're done.
Oh, if only it were that simple. :-)
Ramona, an expert campfire s'more maker, explained to me that there was more to making s'mores than just adding the proper ingredients. There was finding the right stick, proper technique on roasting the marshmallow, cooking the chocolate and graham cracker, adding everything together at just the right time.
The simplicity of s'mores had just become a calculus equation.
First, there was the choosing of your marshmallow stick. Now in today's marshallow stick-evolved society, you can actually buy sharpened wooden sticks with the sole purpose of roasting marshmallows. These sticks, which looked and sounded pretty good to me, were available last weekend.
But to old school s'more maker Ramona, to use anything other than some type of wooden branch was a sin. So instead of the friendly wooden sticks, we went off to a nearby plant and started breaking off branches for our marshmallows.
Now, here's my question when it comes to marshmallow branches: What constitutes a proper branch to roast a marshmallow? Length? Thickness? An indominatble will to succeed? Ramona found her perfect branch in 1.4 seconds. It took me 17 tries before I found a branch that made her say:
Well, I guess that's good enough.
And then there's the cooking of the s'more stuff. Ramona explained that the key to a perfect s'more was to use the campfire grill to cook the chocolate and graham cracker while simultaneously roasting your marshmallow. It was vital, she said, to keep your marshmallow over the flame but not in it, all the while watching your chocolate and graham cracker constantly to make sure it didn't melt and fall into the fire.
Ramona made herself a s'more worthy of reverance on "Iron Chef." It was that good.
My s'more making experience went something like this:
Nev, you're cooking your marshmallow too close to the flame!!
Nev, you need to move your chocolate and graham cracker to the center of the grill!!
Nev, your marshmallow branch can't hold that many marshmallows!!
(note: I had one marshmallow on the branch!!)
Nev, your marshmallow is on fire!!
Nev, blow out the fire!!
Nev, your marshmallow is ruined!!
Nev, your chocolate and graham cracker is on fire!!
You get the idea.
Eventually, Ramona took pity on me and made me one of her perfect s'mores.
But not before I ate my own s'more.
That's right: My s'more was charred, unrecognizable and, quite frankly, inedible. But I ate it anyway. Why? Because it was mine. My first campfire s'more, that I made all by myself. And I wanted the experience of tasting my first s'more creation.
And that experience -- of eating something that tasted like burnt logs -- will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Next time: Friendly wooden sticks!!
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
This week, I was asked the following two questions in regards to my upcoming wedding:
What kind of caligraphy do you want for the invitation addresses?
And:
What kind of stamps do you want on the envelopes?
...
I voted for having the addresses written by a 3-year-old in crayon and lobbied for the Muhammad Ali commemorative stamp.
I lost on both fronts.
So much for the whole "It's Your Wedding" concept.
:-)
...and make s'mores.
For those international readers of mine who don't know what s'mores are, I've invited my good friends from Wikipedia to explain that s'mores "are a traditional campfire treat popular in the United States and Canada, consisting of a roasted marshmallow and a layer of chocolate sandwiched between two pieces of graham cracker."
And it's here that I have a confession:
Until last weekend, I had never made a s'more around the campfire.
Never. Not once.
And here's the weird thing: I've been camping a fair number of times as a kid; to Yosemite, Bishop, state parks and so forth. And at many of these outings, a roaring campfire could be found. But for whatever reason -- a worry about safety, a severe marshmallow shortage in the area I happened to be in at the time -- I had never once had the opportunity to make a campfire s'more.
So there was I last weekend, at age 29, about to make my first chocolate, marshmallow and graham cracker concoction.
And at first, I wasn't too concerned. After all, I've seen this done on TV plenty of times. You roast the marshmallow on the campfire, blow out the flame, stick a piece of chocolate on the graham cracker, place the roasted marshmallow on the chocolate, add another graham cracker, and boom, you're done.
Oh, if only it were that simple. :-)
Ramona, an expert campfire s'more maker, explained to me that there was more to making s'mores than just adding the proper ingredients. There was finding the right stick, proper technique on roasting the marshmallow, cooking the chocolate and graham cracker, adding everything together at just the right time.
The simplicity of s'mores had just become a calculus equation.
First, there was the choosing of your marshmallow stick. Now in today's marshallow stick-evolved society, you can actually buy sharpened wooden sticks with the sole purpose of roasting marshmallows. These sticks, which looked and sounded pretty good to me, were available last weekend.
But to old school s'more maker Ramona, to use anything other than some type of wooden branch was a sin. So instead of the friendly wooden sticks, we went off to a nearby plant and started breaking off branches for our marshmallows.
Now, here's my question when it comes to marshmallow branches: What constitutes a proper branch to roast a marshmallow? Length? Thickness? An indominatble will to succeed? Ramona found her perfect branch in 1.4 seconds. It took me 17 tries before I found a branch that made her say:
Well, I guess that's good enough.
And then there's the cooking of the s'more stuff. Ramona explained that the key to a perfect s'more was to use the campfire grill to cook the chocolate and graham cracker while simultaneously roasting your marshmallow. It was vital, she said, to keep your marshmallow over the flame but not in it, all the while watching your chocolate and graham cracker constantly to make sure it didn't melt and fall into the fire.
Ramona made herself a s'more worthy of reverance on "Iron Chef." It was that good.
My s'more making experience went something like this:
Nev, you're cooking your marshmallow too close to the flame!!
Nev, you need to move your chocolate and graham cracker to the center of the grill!!
Nev, your marshmallow branch can't hold that many marshmallows!!
(note: I had one marshmallow on the branch!!)
Nev, your marshmallow is on fire!!
Nev, blow out the fire!!
Nev, your marshmallow is ruined!!
Nev, your chocolate and graham cracker is on fire!!
You get the idea.
Eventually, Ramona took pity on me and made me one of her perfect s'mores.
But not before I ate my own s'more.
That's right: My s'more was charred, unrecognizable and, quite frankly, inedible. But I ate it anyway. Why? Because it was mine. My first campfire s'more, that I made all by myself. And I wanted the experience of tasting my first s'more creation.
And that experience -- of eating something that tasted like burnt logs -- will stay with me for the rest of my life.
Next time: Friendly wooden sticks!!
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
This week, I was asked the following two questions in regards to my upcoming wedding:
What kind of caligraphy do you want for the invitation addresses?
And:
What kind of stamps do you want on the envelopes?
...
I voted for having the addresses written by a 3-year-old in crayon and lobbied for the Muhammad Ali commemorative stamp.
I lost on both fronts.
So much for the whole "It's Your Wedding" concept.
:-)
Friday, April 3, 2009
People Who Make Left-Hand Turns Out Of Parking Lots Onto Busy Intersections: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
Tell me if this has happened to you:
You're driving out of a parking lot, most likely of the shopping center variety, and are wanting to make a right turn onto a busy street. Before you can do this, however, there's a car in front of you who is insistent on cutting across two or more lanes of heavy traffic to make that left turn, and is willing to wait 15 minutes in order to do so, even though he or she can save himself 90% of the time if he or she just made a right and flipped a U.
Maybe I'm in the minority here, but this particular scenario drives me nuts.
Let me speak directly to the people who insist upon making left-hand turns out of parking lots onto busy intersections at peak traffic hours.
Why can't you just %$#&^%$#@ turn right?
I mean seriously, is it imperative that you make that left-hand turn? Is it really worth the wait? Would it kill you to make a right, make a U-turn, and save both you and I some time? Are you just not hearing my incessant honking of the horn because you utterly refuse to swallow your pride and go the opposite way for four seconds?
What the hell is wrong with you?!?!
And let me talk about another "making a turn" pet peeve.
I'm not sure if this is prevalent in other states, but in California, there are some signs right before a freeway on-ramp indicating that you can't make a right turn onto the freeway when the stoplight is red. However, most of these signs also usually say "From 3-7 p.m." and/or "Except Sat. and Sun."
Now here's the problem:
No one %$#&^%$#@ reads!!
Do you know how many times I've been stuck waiting to get on a freeway on-ramp on a Saturday morning because a guy has stopped at the red light and won't make the right turn because he doesn't have the time to scroll below the "arrow with the red slash across it" and read the text indicating that this particular rule is not enforced on weekends?
I mean, I'm not asking for much. I'm just asking you to go one step further and look to see why there's words at the bottom of the pretty little arrow, so that you can find out whether it holds any relevance for you.
And here's what's great about honking the horn at these people in this situation.
Every time you do so, they roll down their window and point at the sign, as if to say: "Can't you understand the arrow? Sure there's text underneath it, but I have no time to put sounds together and see if they make any sense? I'm a person who relies solely on visual aids. So because of that, we're going to sit here for an indeterminable amount of time because I'm a DUMB %$#&^%$#@!!!!!!"
These same people also insist on making left-hand turns out of parking lots.
Or marry people who do.
And those people have children.
Who become the next generation of "left-hand turn out of parking lots onto busy intersections, and refusing to read the words underneath the arrow sign when you're getting onto the freeway" ers.
Makes you wish a license was required to breed.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Recently, Miley Cyrus came clean and admitted that her boyfriend is indeed a 20-year-old underwear model.
Is anyone else out there worried that a 16-year-old -- someone who is a role model to young girls everywhere, someone who is...you know, not LEGAL -- is dating a 20-year old? Shouldn't some sort of parental figure (paging Billy Ray. Hello Billy Ray?) come out of the woodwork and say "No, this ain't all right."
I'm guessing the relationship won't last.
Going out on a limb, I know.
You're driving out of a parking lot, most likely of the shopping center variety, and are wanting to make a right turn onto a busy street. Before you can do this, however, there's a car in front of you who is insistent on cutting across two or more lanes of heavy traffic to make that left turn, and is willing to wait 15 minutes in order to do so, even though he or she can save himself 90% of the time if he or she just made a right and flipped a U.
Maybe I'm in the minority here, but this particular scenario drives me nuts.
Let me speak directly to the people who insist upon making left-hand turns out of parking lots onto busy intersections at peak traffic hours.
Why can't you just %$#&^%$#@ turn right?
I mean seriously, is it imperative that you make that left-hand turn? Is it really worth the wait? Would it kill you to make a right, make a U-turn, and save both you and I some time? Are you just not hearing my incessant honking of the horn because you utterly refuse to swallow your pride and go the opposite way for four seconds?
What the hell is wrong with you?!?!
And let me talk about another "making a turn" pet peeve.
I'm not sure if this is prevalent in other states, but in California, there are some signs right before a freeway on-ramp indicating that you can't make a right turn onto the freeway when the stoplight is red. However, most of these signs also usually say "From 3-7 p.m." and/or "Except Sat. and Sun."
Now here's the problem:
No one %$#&^%$#@ reads!!
Do you know how many times I've been stuck waiting to get on a freeway on-ramp on a Saturday morning because a guy has stopped at the red light and won't make the right turn because he doesn't have the time to scroll below the "arrow with the red slash across it" and read the text indicating that this particular rule is not enforced on weekends?
I mean, I'm not asking for much. I'm just asking you to go one step further and look to see why there's words at the bottom of the pretty little arrow, so that you can find out whether it holds any relevance for you.
And here's what's great about honking the horn at these people in this situation.
Every time you do so, they roll down their window and point at the sign, as if to say: "Can't you understand the arrow? Sure there's text underneath it, but I have no time to put sounds together and see if they make any sense? I'm a person who relies solely on visual aids. So because of that, we're going to sit here for an indeterminable amount of time because I'm a DUMB %$#&^%$#@!!!!!!"
These same people also insist on making left-hand turns out of parking lots.
Or marry people who do.
And those people have children.
Who become the next generation of "left-hand turn out of parking lots onto busy intersections, and refusing to read the words underneath the arrow sign when you're getting onto the freeway" ers.
Makes you wish a license was required to breed.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
Recently, Miley Cyrus came clean and admitted that her boyfriend is indeed a 20-year-old underwear model.
Is anyone else out there worried that a 16-year-old -- someone who is a role model to young girls everywhere, someone who is...you know, not LEGAL -- is dating a 20-year old? Shouldn't some sort of parental figure (paging Billy Ray. Hello Billy Ray?) come out of the woodwork and say "No, this ain't all right."
I'm guessing the relationship won't last.
Going out on a limb, I know.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Taking A Yoga Class: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
I hate yoga. I tried it once with my fiancee Ramona for 10 minutes on a tape, and I figured out something about myself:
I don't bend.
So why did I recently agree to go with Ramona to a Saturday afternoon yoga class? Honestly, I don't know. I didn't do anything to make her angry, I had plenty of brownie points from past good deeds, and it's not like me not going would've put a permanent dent in the relationship.
And yet I went. To make her happy.
I'm a wonderful, wonderful guy.
:-)
So off we go:
.....
We get to the yoga studio. What does the sign outside the building say?
"Yoga."
Makes sense.
.....
Here's something you realize early on in the class: Everything has weird-sounding, 18-syllable names. "Crouching-lounging-tubba-wabba-maca-wakie-anna-cabana-pose" means lie down.
Is there a reason why we can't teach in English? Is this against yoga code?
.....
Exactly how does one breathe through the torso? Everyone seems to be handling this particular instruction from the teacher pretty easily but me. Apparently, it involves spreading your legs, sucking in your gut, pointing your elbows, and making some sort of whistling sound.
Can someone tell me what the hell this is supposed to achieve?
.....
Why does this teacher feel the need to give a 10-minute speech while I'm holding a half push-up pose? It's hard enough trying to keep my arms steady with my butt halfway in the air, but having to listen to someone talk about "walking down the path to inner sanctuary" is really not helping things any.
"Inner sanctuary." Sounds boring. Like visiting Arkansas.
.....
OK, we're halfway through this 90-minute class and I'm ready to die. I work out regularly and thus am in pretty good shape, but right now I am swaying back and forth with my left knee pointing straight and my right knee pointing northeast to find "harmony in the soul of the spirit" or something or other.
I really want to crouch-lounge-tubba-wabba-maca-wakie-anna-cabana.
.....
This poor teacher. She's come to me 5-6 times to try to correct my poses and we're just not on the same page. She wants me to move my hip forward, and at this point I have no idea what "forward" is. Plus, my knee was bent (yes, I'm bending now) and I didn't even know it and she wanted me to not bend my knee and I thought I wasn't bending my knee but I was bending my knee because I couldn't feel my knee.
And I'm still not moving my hip forward.
.....
We're back to doing the crouching-lounging-tubba-wabba-maca-wakie-anna-cabana-pose and we're being asked to "see out of our third eye."
Yep.
.....
Lord almighty, we're ohming. Seriously. We are saying "ohm." Not once, not twice, but three times. What possible purpose can this serve? And how is everybody doing this with a straight face?
And you know what else is weird? I'm really bad at ohming. I just don't have the vocal cords for a good ohm. Is it a cultural thing? Did I not have the proper ohm upbringing? Is there a separate ohm class taught here that I can take to improve my skills?
.....
"Namaste."
That means we're done.
Expect I can't stop crouching-lounging-tubba-wabba-maca-wakie-anna-cabana-posing.
And my knees remain numb.
Did my hip ever move forward?
Someone should check.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
At my work earlier this week, our coffee maker broke.
Now I don't drink coffee, so for me this goes under the "who gives a damn category." But you should see the coffee addicts at my work. You'd have thought the world was coming to an end. Every day now starts with them on a mass exodus to Starbucks. They all walk in a line, like sheep.
Or folks in a prison line.
I don't bend.
So why did I recently agree to go with Ramona to a Saturday afternoon yoga class? Honestly, I don't know. I didn't do anything to make her angry, I had plenty of brownie points from past good deeds, and it's not like me not going would've put a permanent dent in the relationship.
And yet I went. To make her happy.
I'm a wonderful, wonderful guy.
:-)
So off we go:
.....
We get to the yoga studio. What does the sign outside the building say?
"Yoga."
Makes sense.
.....
Here's something you realize early on in the class: Everything has weird-sounding, 18-syllable names. "Crouching-lounging-tubba-wabba-maca-wakie-anna-cabana-pose" means lie down.
Is there a reason why we can't teach in English? Is this against yoga code?
.....
Exactly how does one breathe through the torso? Everyone seems to be handling this particular instruction from the teacher pretty easily but me. Apparently, it involves spreading your legs, sucking in your gut, pointing your elbows, and making some sort of whistling sound.
Can someone tell me what the hell this is supposed to achieve?
.....
Why does this teacher feel the need to give a 10-minute speech while I'm holding a half push-up pose? It's hard enough trying to keep my arms steady with my butt halfway in the air, but having to listen to someone talk about "walking down the path to inner sanctuary" is really not helping things any.
"Inner sanctuary." Sounds boring. Like visiting Arkansas.
.....
OK, we're halfway through this 90-minute class and I'm ready to die. I work out regularly and thus am in pretty good shape, but right now I am swaying back and forth with my left knee pointing straight and my right knee pointing northeast to find "harmony in the soul of the spirit" or something or other.
I really want to crouch-lounge-tubba-wabba-maca-wakie-anna-cabana.
.....
This poor teacher. She's come to me 5-6 times to try to correct my poses and we're just not on the same page. She wants me to move my hip forward, and at this point I have no idea what "forward" is. Plus, my knee was bent (yes, I'm bending now) and I didn't even know it and she wanted me to not bend my knee and I thought I wasn't bending my knee but I was bending my knee because I couldn't feel my knee.
And I'm still not moving my hip forward.
.....
We're back to doing the crouching-lounging-tubba-wabba-maca-wakie-anna-cabana-pose and we're being asked to "see out of our third eye."
Yep.
.....
Lord almighty, we're ohming. Seriously. We are saying "ohm." Not once, not twice, but three times. What possible purpose can this serve? And how is everybody doing this with a straight face?
And you know what else is weird? I'm really bad at ohming. I just don't have the vocal cords for a good ohm. Is it a cultural thing? Did I not have the proper ohm upbringing? Is there a separate ohm class taught here that I can take to improve my skills?
.....
"Namaste."
That means we're done.
Expect I can't stop crouching-lounging-tubba-wabba-maca-wakie-anna-cabana-posing.
And my knees remain numb.
Did my hip ever move forward?
Someone should check.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
At my work earlier this week, our coffee maker broke.
Now I don't drink coffee, so for me this goes under the "who gives a damn category." But you should see the coffee addicts at my work. You'd have thought the world was coming to an end. Every day now starts with them on a mass exodus to Starbucks. They all walk in a line, like sheep.
Or folks in a prison line.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Two Words: March Madness: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
OK, I'll just say this right now: If you don't like sports, you won't like this week's blog. You'll be bored, roll your eyes, sigh a lot, and that's before you get to paragraph 3. So just go to another Web site and tune in next week when I'll write about going to yoga (more on that later).
For those of you who are living under a rock -- and in today's economy, that may be more people than we think -- this week was the beginning of the NCAA men's basketball tournament, where 65 of the top college basketball teams in the nation compete in a single-elimination tournament and people like me fill out brackets trying to figure out who is going to win each game, following the games online at work, watching nothing but basketball at home, ignoring our friends, loved ones and co-workers for three weeks, etc.
It's fun.
It's exciting.
It feels like life and death.
And you can win lots of money.
And that's why they call it March Madness. :-)
Now, last year I did a running diary of the first two days of the tournament. But this year, there was something different that I just couldn't ignore:
Cal State Northridge.
CSUN, my alma mater, was in the tournament for only the second time in school history, facing a Memphis team ranked No. 2 in the nation and favored by many to reach the Final Four. It's rare that my school gets a shot on the national stage, so I made an executive blog decision:
This year -- while writing about trying to follow the games at work, interacting with friends who also have many brackets, and dealing with idiotic questions from co-workers who have no idea what a basketball is -- I would focus my blog entirely on the few hours that my Matadors (CSUN's mascot) were in the spotlight.
It's 8:30 a.m. Thursday morning. Let March Madness begin.
(note: Names of certain people have been changed to ensure privacy. And if anyone from my company's management team is reading this, I got all my work done that day. In fact, everything I'm writing is fiction. Fiction, I say. I remain a model employee.)
8:32 a.m.
Me to my co-worker Timothy:
ONLY 53 MINUTES UNTIL CSUN IS ON!!!
He rolls his eyes. It's going to be a long morning for Tim.
8:46 a.m.
Phone conversation with my dad, a fellow CSUN graduate:
Me: Dad, we're gonna get destroyed, aren't we?
Dad: If we can just keep it to 15 points, I'll be happy.
Ah, the eternal optimism of old people. They've lived long enough on this Earth to see some sport of athletic miracle happen and thus make us think that we have a chance to win (or in this case, keep it respectable). But the fact is: Memphis is a powerhouse, predicted by many to reach the Final Four and maybe win it all. CSUN's team is full of junior college rejects, thugs and the requisite 7-foot-tall white guy who is only on the team because he's 7-feet tall and can't even take his warmup pants off without tripping, let alone play basketball.
9:01 a.m.
A statement from my co-worker Amy:
Did you know that the Angels are 15-4 in spring training this year?
This brings me to:
March Madness Etiquette Rule #1: On the first day of March Madness, NO OTHER SPORT MATTERS!! Baseball, football, hockey, even my beloved boxing: These all take a backseat to college hoops. When you see a guy with half-a-dozen brackets practically jumping out of his chair every 12 seconds because he's itching for March Madness to start, you can't mess with his mind by letting him know that other things around him exist.
Bad form, Amy. Bad form.
9:14 a.m.
I send a text message to my friend Joe, a fellow March Madness obsessor:
Me: CSUN only has two starters over 6-4. Memphis doesn't have a starter under 6-5. Hold me, Joseph.
9:16 a.m.
Joe's reply:
Um...hold you where? There's certain body parts of yours I won't touch. On principle.
9:24 a.m.
"ONE MINUTE TO GAME TIME"!!!! I squeal.
Which broughts the following reply from co-worker Amy:
It's going to be a long hour and a half.
9:27 a.m.
(Note: Because I was at work and because I couldn't download the live game video on my computer, I followed the CSUN-Memphis game on ESPN Stattracker)
CSUN is up 2-0!!!
Text message to Joe:
They can't say we never led.
9:28 a.m.
CSUN is up 7-2!!!
Amy: Are you going to be like this the entire game?
This brings me to:
March Madness Etiquette Rule # 2: If you're not an obsessed March Madness person, you are allowed one -- and only one -- snide comment per day. If you recall, Amy already had her "it's going to be a long hour and a half" comment earlier in the morning. That's all you get. Any more snide remarks is just plain mean and spiteful.
9:32 a.m.
CSUN is up 11-4!!! And I officially have my "hold on to the one positive thing" moment; the moment a sports fan gets when his team is playing the underdog role and has found something he can always remember if his team ends up getting blown out.
For me, CSUN was up by 7 in this game. So even if we spontaneously combust right now, I can hold on to that moment for all eternity and remind myself that the game wasn't all bad.
9:36 a.m.
Memphis ties it up. TV timeout, according to ESPN, so I run into the hallway and call my dad, who works from home and is thus watching the game.
Me: I know it's tied. How we lookin'?
Dad: Well...we're scoring a lot, but now so are they.
(pause)
Me: Dad, I can get such deep analysis watching the numbers update. But how do they look? What's the feeling you get? Have we come to play? Do our uniforms look good on TV? Do we look like we belong? Is the court shiny? I can't watch the game. Jesus, give me something!!
Dad: Well...it's tied...
OK:
When it comes to March Madness, it's not just the players who have to come prepared. It's the fans. You need to know every detail of every game that's currently going on, in real time, because inevitably some crazy fan will ask you some random thing about some random game, and it's incumbent upon you -- as a March Madness enthusiast and as a man (that's right: I said it) -- to answer his ridiculous question.
Example:
Last year, Joe asked me what the mascot was for Western Kentucky. Why? I don't know. But I didn't ask him why. I didn't judge him. Because when it comes to March Madness, no detail is too small, no March Madness-related question too ridiculous to ask. And did I know the answer? Of course!! It was the Hilltoppers. Now, what's a hilltopper? I don't have the first %$#@%$$# clue!! But it's March Madness, damn it!! You need to know these things.
Me: Hey Dad, news flash: March Madness has begun. GET YOUR GAME FACE ON!!!
9:50 a.m.
The game is back and forth. Every time Memphis tries to break it open, CSUN answers back.
E-mail from my friend Michelle, a former classmate of mine from CSUN and who has let March Madness into her soul for one day.
Oh my God!! It's so close!! We can do it!!
And this brings me to one of the inevitable tragedies of March Madness:
See, March Madness has the power to affect anybody, from the biggest fan to the most curious random observer. In the case of Michelle, she hadn't followed CSUN all year, but when she found out her school was on the big stage, she found her Matador pride and decided to live life-and-death with the rest of us.
But here-in lies the problem: Such a fan doesn't realize that, deep down, we won't win this game. At some point, Memphis will make a run. At some point, CSUN will run out of gas. You've seen it in sports too many times. Inevitably, the better team finds a way to win, and the underdog team is left to find the moral victory in all of this. I have prepared myself for this moment, but I know Michelle -- and others like her -- have not.
I know Michelle will be OK. Still, I wish I could spare her some of the sorrow....
10:15 a.m.
CSUN down 34-31 at the half.
For reference: Every sports expert expected Memphis to be up by 20-25 points at this point. I rarely believe in morale victories, but today, I got mine.
10:17 a.m.
In the span of two minutes, I have received 16 e-mails, texts and phone calls from friends all essentially saying the same thing:
CSUN BETTER NOT WIN BECAUSE IT WILL $#@$&%$$#@@ UP MY BRACKET!!!!!
March Madness: Feel the love. :-)
10:37 a.m.
In games like these, the better team -- Memphis -- typically makes adjustments and blows the game open. But guess what? It ain't happenin'!! CSUN just will not go away!! Every Memphis lay-up is answered by a CSUN jumper. Every Memphis 3-pointer is countered by another CSUN bomb!!
I look up at the ceiling, the March Madness basketball Gods high above, the ones that decide when to create such a miracle...
...and I start to wonder...
10:56 a.m.
OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!! CSUN IS UP 62-56 WITH 10 MINUTES TO GO!!!!!
And it's official:
I now believe we can win.
I have given up all reason, all rationality. No more "I just want to keep it respectable." I want a victory. I want to pull off the upset of upsets. I want to scream and shout and rub in everyone's faces that my school -- MY SCHOOL!!!! -- is the best in the land for a day. C'mon CSUN!! God damn it, C'MON!!!!
10:56 a.m.
With CSUN up 6, I give Timothy a big bearhug across his shoulders. That brings me to:
March Madness Etiquette Rule # 3: All physical contact between men is allowed during March Madness. It's OK. Perfectly acceptable. During March Madness, no one looks at you funny if a man embraces another man in the thrill of victory or agony of defeat. For the power of March Madness can only be truly felt if you let down your walls.
11:02 a.m.
Timothy has figured out how to get the live video of the game!!! And we get it just in time to see a CSUN player do this ridiculously sweet spin move to put the Matadors back up by 3!!!
Television announcer: "SPIN BABY SPIN!!"
I start to spin.
11:04 a.m.
Instant messenger conversation between me and my co-worker Rachel:
Me: CSUN is winning!!
Rachel: CSUN? Do they even have an athletic department?
Now, here's what pisses me off about this conversation: Rachel went to UCLA. And I -- although a CSUN grad -- grew up cheering for USC, UCLA's rival. So I know that Rachel's little snide comment stems from our USC-UCLA rivalry.
This brings me to:
March Madness Etiquette Rule # 4: Put past grudges aside. Any trash talking during March Madness has to stem from the games at hand. You're not allowed to make any comments where the root of such comments stems from something irrelevant to March Madness.
See, if Rachel had picked Memphis to win it all, then fine. Her CSUN crack is justified. Because it has to do with the March Madness game at hand. But she didn't. Hell, she's not even in a pool!! Her comment stemmed from the fact that I love USC -- who isn't even playing right now -- and her UCLA heart can't stand to see a USC fan like me happy.
That's why UCLA fans are stupid.
11:12 a.m.
And finally...the inevitable. Memphis has retaken the lead. And unlike earlier, CSUN won't get it back. Although CSUN would keep it close, cutting the lead to four with 2:30 to go, Memphis would hit a 3-pointer 30 seconds later to go up by seven, and that was essentially all she wrote.
Final score: Memphis 81, CSUN 70.
A couple of final thoughts:
---After work, I went back home and watched the game (I had recorded it). And you know it? It was still awesome!! My school -- for one game -- was legitimate, playing with heart, determination, swagger. And even though I knew what the result was, I still went crazy on every big play we made. It was that cool.
---I got some words of wisdom in the form of an e-mail from my friend Kevin, who also went to CSUN with me:
We may have lost today, but you know what? We represented. We went toe-to-toe with one of the best in the land, and for that we should be proud. This is not a sad day, this is a happy day. Hold your head up high.
My eyes got a little misty when I read that.
It's OK.
It's March Madness.
Emotion is allowed.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
A preview of next week's blog:
Last weekend, I went to a yoga class.
Where one is asked to breathe through their torso and see out of their third eye.
.....
Yeah.
For those of you who are living under a rock -- and in today's economy, that may be more people than we think -- this week was the beginning of the NCAA men's basketball tournament, where 65 of the top college basketball teams in the nation compete in a single-elimination tournament and people like me fill out brackets trying to figure out who is going to win each game, following the games online at work, watching nothing but basketball at home, ignoring our friends, loved ones and co-workers for three weeks, etc.
It's fun.
It's exciting.
It feels like life and death.
And you can win lots of money.
And that's why they call it March Madness. :-)
Now, last year I did a running diary of the first two days of the tournament. But this year, there was something different that I just couldn't ignore:
Cal State Northridge.
CSUN, my alma mater, was in the tournament for only the second time in school history, facing a Memphis team ranked No. 2 in the nation and favored by many to reach the Final Four. It's rare that my school gets a shot on the national stage, so I made an executive blog decision:
This year -- while writing about trying to follow the games at work, interacting with friends who also have many brackets, and dealing with idiotic questions from co-workers who have no idea what a basketball is -- I would focus my blog entirely on the few hours that my Matadors (CSUN's mascot) were in the spotlight.
It's 8:30 a.m. Thursday morning. Let March Madness begin.
(note: Names of certain people have been changed to ensure privacy. And if anyone from my company's management team is reading this, I got all my work done that day. In fact, everything I'm writing is fiction. Fiction, I say. I remain a model employee.)
8:32 a.m.
Me to my co-worker Timothy:
ONLY 53 MINUTES UNTIL CSUN IS ON!!!
He rolls his eyes. It's going to be a long morning for Tim.
8:46 a.m.
Phone conversation with my dad, a fellow CSUN graduate:
Me: Dad, we're gonna get destroyed, aren't we?
Dad: If we can just keep it to 15 points, I'll be happy.
Ah, the eternal optimism of old people. They've lived long enough on this Earth to see some sport of athletic miracle happen and thus make us think that we have a chance to win (or in this case, keep it respectable). But the fact is: Memphis is a powerhouse, predicted by many to reach the Final Four and maybe win it all. CSUN's team is full of junior college rejects, thugs and the requisite 7-foot-tall white guy who is only on the team because he's 7-feet tall and can't even take his warmup pants off without tripping, let alone play basketball.
9:01 a.m.
A statement from my co-worker Amy:
Did you know that the Angels are 15-4 in spring training this year?
This brings me to:
March Madness Etiquette Rule #1: On the first day of March Madness, NO OTHER SPORT MATTERS!! Baseball, football, hockey, even my beloved boxing: These all take a backseat to college hoops. When you see a guy with half-a-dozen brackets practically jumping out of his chair every 12 seconds because he's itching for March Madness to start, you can't mess with his mind by letting him know that other things around him exist.
Bad form, Amy. Bad form.
9:14 a.m.
I send a text message to my friend Joe, a fellow March Madness obsessor:
Me: CSUN only has two starters over 6-4. Memphis doesn't have a starter under 6-5. Hold me, Joseph.
9:16 a.m.
Joe's reply:
Um...hold you where? There's certain body parts of yours I won't touch. On principle.
9:24 a.m.
"ONE MINUTE TO GAME TIME"!!!! I squeal.
Which broughts the following reply from co-worker Amy:
It's going to be a long hour and a half.
9:27 a.m.
(Note: Because I was at work and because I couldn't download the live game video on my computer, I followed the CSUN-Memphis game on ESPN Stattracker)
CSUN is up 2-0!!!
Text message to Joe:
They can't say we never led.
9:28 a.m.
CSUN is up 7-2!!!
Amy: Are you going to be like this the entire game?
This brings me to:
March Madness Etiquette Rule # 2: If you're not an obsessed March Madness person, you are allowed one -- and only one -- snide comment per day. If you recall, Amy already had her "it's going to be a long hour and a half" comment earlier in the morning. That's all you get. Any more snide remarks is just plain mean and spiteful.
9:32 a.m.
CSUN is up 11-4!!! And I officially have my "hold on to the one positive thing" moment; the moment a sports fan gets when his team is playing the underdog role and has found something he can always remember if his team ends up getting blown out.
For me, CSUN was up by 7 in this game. So even if we spontaneously combust right now, I can hold on to that moment for all eternity and remind myself that the game wasn't all bad.
9:36 a.m.
Memphis ties it up. TV timeout, according to ESPN, so I run into the hallway and call my dad, who works from home and is thus watching the game.
Me: I know it's tied. How we lookin'?
Dad: Well...we're scoring a lot, but now so are they.
(pause)
Me: Dad, I can get such deep analysis watching the numbers update. But how do they look? What's the feeling you get? Have we come to play? Do our uniforms look good on TV? Do we look like we belong? Is the court shiny? I can't watch the game. Jesus, give me something!!
Dad: Well...it's tied...
OK:
When it comes to March Madness, it's not just the players who have to come prepared. It's the fans. You need to know every detail of every game that's currently going on, in real time, because inevitably some crazy fan will ask you some random thing about some random game, and it's incumbent upon you -- as a March Madness enthusiast and as a man (that's right: I said it) -- to answer his ridiculous question.
Example:
Last year, Joe asked me what the mascot was for Western Kentucky. Why? I don't know. But I didn't ask him why. I didn't judge him. Because when it comes to March Madness, no detail is too small, no March Madness-related question too ridiculous to ask. And did I know the answer? Of course!! It was the Hilltoppers. Now, what's a hilltopper? I don't have the first %$#@%$$# clue!! But it's March Madness, damn it!! You need to know these things.
Me: Hey Dad, news flash: March Madness has begun. GET YOUR GAME FACE ON!!!
9:50 a.m.
The game is back and forth. Every time Memphis tries to break it open, CSUN answers back.
E-mail from my friend Michelle, a former classmate of mine from CSUN and who has let March Madness into her soul for one day.
Oh my God!! It's so close!! We can do it!!
And this brings me to one of the inevitable tragedies of March Madness:
See, March Madness has the power to affect anybody, from the biggest fan to the most curious random observer. In the case of Michelle, she hadn't followed CSUN all year, but when she found out her school was on the big stage, she found her Matador pride and decided to live life-and-death with the rest of us.
But here-in lies the problem: Such a fan doesn't realize that, deep down, we won't win this game. At some point, Memphis will make a run. At some point, CSUN will run out of gas. You've seen it in sports too many times. Inevitably, the better team finds a way to win, and the underdog team is left to find the moral victory in all of this. I have prepared myself for this moment, but I know Michelle -- and others like her -- have not.
I know Michelle will be OK. Still, I wish I could spare her some of the sorrow....
10:15 a.m.
CSUN down 34-31 at the half.
For reference: Every sports expert expected Memphis to be up by 20-25 points at this point. I rarely believe in morale victories, but today, I got mine.
10:17 a.m.
In the span of two minutes, I have received 16 e-mails, texts and phone calls from friends all essentially saying the same thing:
CSUN BETTER NOT WIN BECAUSE IT WILL $#@$&%$$#@@ UP MY BRACKET!!!!!
March Madness: Feel the love. :-)
10:37 a.m.
In games like these, the better team -- Memphis -- typically makes adjustments and blows the game open. But guess what? It ain't happenin'!! CSUN just will not go away!! Every Memphis lay-up is answered by a CSUN jumper. Every Memphis 3-pointer is countered by another CSUN bomb!!
I look up at the ceiling, the March Madness basketball Gods high above, the ones that decide when to create such a miracle...
...and I start to wonder...
10:56 a.m.
OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!! CSUN IS UP 62-56 WITH 10 MINUTES TO GO!!!!!
And it's official:
I now believe we can win.
I have given up all reason, all rationality. No more "I just want to keep it respectable." I want a victory. I want to pull off the upset of upsets. I want to scream and shout and rub in everyone's faces that my school -- MY SCHOOL!!!! -- is the best in the land for a day. C'mon CSUN!! God damn it, C'MON!!!!
10:56 a.m.
With CSUN up 6, I give Timothy a big bearhug across his shoulders. That brings me to:
March Madness Etiquette Rule # 3: All physical contact between men is allowed during March Madness. It's OK. Perfectly acceptable. During March Madness, no one looks at you funny if a man embraces another man in the thrill of victory or agony of defeat. For the power of March Madness can only be truly felt if you let down your walls.
11:02 a.m.
Timothy has figured out how to get the live video of the game!!! And we get it just in time to see a CSUN player do this ridiculously sweet spin move to put the Matadors back up by 3!!!
Television announcer: "SPIN BABY SPIN!!"
I start to spin.
11:04 a.m.
Instant messenger conversation between me and my co-worker Rachel:
Me: CSUN is winning!!
Rachel: CSUN? Do they even have an athletic department?
Now, here's what pisses me off about this conversation: Rachel went to UCLA. And I -- although a CSUN grad -- grew up cheering for USC, UCLA's rival. So I know that Rachel's little snide comment stems from our USC-UCLA rivalry.
This brings me to:
March Madness Etiquette Rule # 4: Put past grudges aside. Any trash talking during March Madness has to stem from the games at hand. You're not allowed to make any comments where the root of such comments stems from something irrelevant to March Madness.
See, if Rachel had picked Memphis to win it all, then fine. Her CSUN crack is justified. Because it has to do with the March Madness game at hand. But she didn't. Hell, she's not even in a pool!! Her comment stemmed from the fact that I love USC -- who isn't even playing right now -- and her UCLA heart can't stand to see a USC fan like me happy.
That's why UCLA fans are stupid.
11:12 a.m.
And finally...the inevitable. Memphis has retaken the lead. And unlike earlier, CSUN won't get it back. Although CSUN would keep it close, cutting the lead to four with 2:30 to go, Memphis would hit a 3-pointer 30 seconds later to go up by seven, and that was essentially all she wrote.
Final score: Memphis 81, CSUN 70.
A couple of final thoughts:
---After work, I went back home and watched the game (I had recorded it). And you know it? It was still awesome!! My school -- for one game -- was legitimate, playing with heart, determination, swagger. And even though I knew what the result was, I still went crazy on every big play we made. It was that cool.
---I got some words of wisdom in the form of an e-mail from my friend Kevin, who also went to CSUN with me:
We may have lost today, but you know what? We represented. We went toe-to-toe with one of the best in the land, and for that we should be proud. This is not a sad day, this is a happy day. Hold your head up high.
My eyes got a little misty when I read that.
It's OK.
It's March Madness.
Emotion is allowed.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
A preview of next week's blog:
Last weekend, I went to a yoga class.
Where one is asked to breathe through their torso and see out of their third eye.
.....
Yeah.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Wearing Sweatpants On The Job: A Nevin Barich Blog Experience
Earlier this week, I woke up with a nasty sore throat and was forced to work from home. Working from home is much different from working in the office. It's quieter, sometimes harder to get motivated, even borderline lonely.
But at least I got to wear sweatpants!! :-)
If you're like me, you work in an office that forces you to wear bottom-half attire featuring a fastening button. Whether it's jeans, dress pants or skirts (do skirts have fastening buttons? ???), you have to put something on underneath your belly button that doesn't include an elastic waist.
And personally, I think that's just plain wrong.
Working from home the other day really opened my eyes. Even though I was sick, tired and every inch of me preferred to crawl back into bed and wait for sedatives to kick in, I found myself being extremely productive. Big tasks, little tasks, out-of-the-blue tasks, it didn't matter. Here I was, sucking cough drops by the handful, blowing through my work like wind through a desert.
And I owe it all to my sweatpants with holes in my pockets.
You see, I was comfortable. I'm not a big guy, but let's face it: Big or small, we all feel restricted in work pants. In work pants, it's hard to move your legs in a sitting position. In sweatpants, your legs sway like a deer running the woods. In work pants, it's a littler harder to "sit down and get up, sit down and get up." In sweatpants, you can practically jump from one position to the other. In work pants, you're sucking in your gut. In sweatpants, your belly is exhaling like it's never exhaled before.
So I ask: What is wrong with wearing sweatpants to work? They're comfortable, you're more productive in them, and let's be honest: Are we really so vain? When did we as a society suddenly decide that being comfortable in the workplace was taboo? Who are we really trying to impress? If everyone wore sweatpants, you wouldn't have to impress anybody!!
So I'd like now to speak directly to the CEOs and executives and vice presidents and any other "dress code decision making" people who read this blog and say this:
Let your employees wear sweatpants to the office. Schedule a companywide meeting and announce to everyone that you're removing the shackles known as slacks and are encourgaing -- even demanding -- that everyone jump on the sweatpants bandwagon. Wear them yourself -- set an example -- and once others follow your lead, you will see productivity rise, revenue increase, and company morale boosted.
And if the sweatpants have holes in them, like mine do, you'll also see boxer shorts with puppy dogs on them.
A necessary sacrifice...for the sake of progress.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
I love it when I can give a SOTA that's a little more personal. :-) The Cal State Northridge (CSUN) men's basketball team is just one win away from making the NCAA tournament!! Little CSUN, my alma mater, with a basketball "stadium" that's a glorified high school gym and a team roster filled with names you never heard of and probably will never hear of again, is just one game away from the promised land.
March Madness has officially begun. :-)
But at least I got to wear sweatpants!! :-)
If you're like me, you work in an office that forces you to wear bottom-half attire featuring a fastening button. Whether it's jeans, dress pants or skirts (do skirts have fastening buttons? ???), you have to put something on underneath your belly button that doesn't include an elastic waist.
And personally, I think that's just plain wrong.
Working from home the other day really opened my eyes. Even though I was sick, tired and every inch of me preferred to crawl back into bed and wait for sedatives to kick in, I found myself being extremely productive. Big tasks, little tasks, out-of-the-blue tasks, it didn't matter. Here I was, sucking cough drops by the handful, blowing through my work like wind through a desert.
And I owe it all to my sweatpants with holes in my pockets.
You see, I was comfortable. I'm not a big guy, but let's face it: Big or small, we all feel restricted in work pants. In work pants, it's hard to move your legs in a sitting position. In sweatpants, your legs sway like a deer running the woods. In work pants, it's a littler harder to "sit down and get up, sit down and get up." In sweatpants, you can practically jump from one position to the other. In work pants, you're sucking in your gut. In sweatpants, your belly is exhaling like it's never exhaled before.
So I ask: What is wrong with wearing sweatpants to work? They're comfortable, you're more productive in them, and let's be honest: Are we really so vain? When did we as a society suddenly decide that being comfortable in the workplace was taboo? Who are we really trying to impress? If everyone wore sweatpants, you wouldn't have to impress anybody!!
So I'd like now to speak directly to the CEOs and executives and vice presidents and any other "dress code decision making" people who read this blog and say this:
Let your employees wear sweatpants to the office. Schedule a companywide meeting and announce to everyone that you're removing the shackles known as slacks and are encourgaing -- even demanding -- that everyone jump on the sweatpants bandwagon. Wear them yourself -- set an example -- and once others follow your lead, you will see productivity rise, revenue increase, and company morale boosted.
And if the sweatpants have holes in them, like mine do, you'll also see boxer shorts with puppy dogs on them.
A necessary sacrifice...for the sake of progress.
:-)
And now for this week's:
SIGN OF THE APOCALYPSE
I love it when I can give a SOTA that's a little more personal. :-) The Cal State Northridge (CSUN) men's basketball team is just one win away from making the NCAA tournament!! Little CSUN, my alma mater, with a basketball "stadium" that's a glorified high school gym and a team roster filled with names you never heard of and probably will never hear of again, is just one game away from the promised land.
March Madness has officially begun. :-)
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