He Said... She Said... It's A Blog Off

It's Monday and I'm already cheating on the posts for this week. You'll have to forgive me, but I will be spilling on more of the details in the very near future as to my "slackerd-ness". In the mean time, I am very excited about a possible opportunity to work with fellow blogger and one very adorable lady, Petra of The Wise (Young) Mommy. I say "possible" because this week she is holding try-outs for a weekly series HeBlog / SheBlog where readers and fans submit questions to be answered from the perspective of both a woman and a man. It's a very fun concept, and I would be remiss if I didn't mention her original co-creator, the incredibly likable and talented blogger Jim "The Heinous" one of Irregularly Periodic Ruminations who is on a blog hiatus for the time being.

Besides thanking Petra for the chance to be a part of HeBlog / SheBlog, I would also like to introduce my fellow entrants who are all a bunch of talented writers with a massive fan base to prove it. They are:

Christopher from Cajoh (entry post on Monday, February 9th)

And the very splendid Irish Gumbo (entry post on Monday, February 9th)

Joe from Crotchety Old Man Yells At Cars (entry post on Tuesday, February 10th)

IB from Idiot’s Stew (entry post on Tuesday, February 10th)

Chad ‘Captain Dumbass’ from Us and Them (entry post on Wednesday, February 11th)

Matt from DC Urban Dad (entry post on Wednesday, February 11th)

Ryan at Pacing the Panic Room (entry post on Thursday, February 12th)

I will be joining Ryan with my entry on Thursday, February 12th (which makes me nervous given how superb of a writer Ryan is)

As you can see, each of us will have our day for readers to review our answers and then vote in the form of an email to Petra (it's secret ballet people READ HERE for details).

Even though I am not supposed to show up for a few days, out of fairness, I wanted to make everyone that reads the Lunchbox aware so they can go to The Wise (Young) Mommy this week and add their two cents. Of course I hope that you will vote for me, but whoever is chosen as the winner Petra will have a quality partner to work with. And with that...

... it's a Blog Off!

Zoolander it's a woke off
by charlygadu

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Laid Off? Unemployed? We Still Love You.

This post is more of a public service announcement of sorts and if you can help out by passing it along to anyone you might think of that might be interested it would be greatly appreciated. Basically, Irish Gumbo and I are teaming up to collect information for an idea that has some real merit to it. There definitely is some benefit to anyone who eventually becomes involved, but we can't say just yet until we see what kind of response there is to it.

This little blurb is being posted to as many places as we can think of right now and your help on getting the word out would be a huge help.

"Are you a father recently been laid off because of the economic downturn?If you are among the growing number of men who fall into this category, then we would like to hear from you as a possible contributor to a potential project.

For more details please email either Clark Kent's Lunchbox (clarksdouble (at) gmail (dot)com or Irish Gumbo kms8gumbo(at)gmail (dot)com

As part of your inquiry, please provide a short description (less than 400 words) of your background, (previous occupation, family size, marital status, etc), and your personal feelings on your current circumstances within the body of your email. Please do not send attachments.

Should you already have a personal blog or website, please include the URL or link as well.

Thank you for your interest. We hope to hear from you soon."

Thanks all.

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Death Wish

My wife, it seems has a death wish. It's unclear to me whether she is a fatalist, an overly anxious pessimist, or if she harbors a quiet, yet insatiable need for attention. Quite honestly, it wouldn't be out of the question for her fascination to be an equal combination of all three. In any case, she continually manages to find new abnormal circumstances sure to be responsible for her demise. Understand, her theories are far beyond that of a mundane car accident or place crash, but contain, instead a consistent element of dramatic rarity supported by meticulous research intended to make her audience doubt their own misgivings as they listen to my wife's point-by-point assertions.

Not that her little quirk is an annoyance to me, as she has convinced me on several occasions of the legitimacy behind a few of her hunches, and because she's my wife, it's hard for me to accuse her of crying wolf. Who wants to be the grieving husband haunted by his deceased spouse's eternal nagging, "And you thought I was so full of shit. Look who's laughing now, Mr. Know-it-all?" Still, I'd like to thank the bevy of Television medical dramas (Grey's Anatomy excluded), as well as the efficiency of the Google search function for the quasi PHD my wife now holds in the field of medicine. 

. . .a death that allows adequate time to bask in the sympathy from others, while at the same time being devoid of pain. . .

From before I knew her, my wife has often speculated on having contracted a number of obscure diseases and disorders, which she has since dismissed after crossing off various signs and symptoms that were no longer consistently present in her goings to and fro. More recent dismissals have included Waaler Aarskog syndrome, Quinquaud's decalvans folliculitis and Pachydermoperiostosis, leaving Huntington's disease and brain aneurysm to remain as strong front-runners. Given that my wife's father may have had Huntington's and that her mother survived an aneurysm, coupled with the strong hereditary nature common to both afflictions, I remain alert. 

Were I in my wife's shoes, the numerous precautions and warning signs involved in monitoring these legitimate health risks would be more than enough to keep my mind preoccupied. Apparently she feels differently, continually exploring more and more potential culprits in a quest for the perfect means by which to leave this world. Specifically, this would mean a death that allows adequate time to bask in the sympathy from others, while at the same time being devoid of pain, complicated treatments or any potential for survival. A beheading for example, would be way too quick, but at the same time, the plague is so excruciating the agony would overshadow her capcity to enjoy the adulation of grieving well-wishers, and that's not to mention it's easily curable.    

The other day she swiveled around in the desk chair to greet me as I walked into the room. "I think I have hypothyroidism," she announced as if winning a coupon good for a sizable discount at her favorite shoe store. Behind her, on the computer screen, were the results of an Internet query, which she noticed me glancing at. "I runs in my family."

"Geez, woman. What doesn't run in your family?" It's true, sometimes they seemed to be the prefect candidates for a library full of cases studies conducted by experts in a wide-range of specialties.

She responded by squinting her eyes mockingly as if to say ha ha, very funny. "Oh ya? Well it explains the tiredness, weight-gain, snoring..."

There were more symptoms, but I can never remember more than three. There's no real point in doing so since anytime one of them is mentioned, my wife is quick to recite the details tying the symptom in question to the diagnoses in a manner not unlike medical interns proving their proficiency to the attending as they make their daily rounds. Upon the conclusion of these impromptu sessions, my wife will then repeat the story of how she astonished doctors by identifying the viral infection behind her daughter's illness. 

"It has all the drama associated with the connotation of a brain tumor, but with better odds of survival."

The hint of skepticism that somehow seeped through in my reaction to her self-assessed hypothyroidism apparently warranted the need for my wife to up the stakes somewhat. "I was doing a bit of reading today," she said as we were riding in the van, "and I have a brain tumor."

This time, I couldn't help but roll my eyes. "The other day it was your thyroid, and now you have a tumor?"

"Ya, the two are related." Naturally a full dissertation followed, and when she came to the point explaining how this particular tumor is classified as a brain tumor, their was a hint of glee that coated those two words. Brain tumor. My suspicion was confirmed as she mentioned how this particular growth is usually benign and easy to remove. "It has all the drama associated with the connotation of a brain tumor, but with better odds of survival." She seemed quite proud to have been "chosen" for such and honor. So sure was she of herself that she dialed a doctor right then and there. Admittedly, her confidence in the matter had me legitimately concerned for her health, but it was tempered with a calmness watching my wife rehearse how she would break the news to friends and family once the diagnosis was official. To date, my wife has yet to meet with the doctor. In the meantime, however, she has found new discoveries sure to kill her.

The other night as we watched TV, an astronomer was being interviewed about a book recently written concerning the outer space (see video in the sidebar). During the talk, he alluded to an asteroid currently being tracked, that will narrowly miss our planet roughly 27 years from now. Interestingly, it seems that this initial pass by us is only a precursor as to whether this same chuck of rock will actually impact earth the very following year.

Upon hearing of this potential catastrophe, my wife sat straight up. "Wait," she said after counting on her fingers, "That means I'll be 59 and you'll be..." She ticked through her fingers again, "65. We could still be alive."

"Maybe," I said already knowing where this was going with this. Sure enough, as if the Google god himself had called to her in a booming voice from a burning laptop in the wilderness, my wife rose up from the couch to answer the call, searching for more details concerning the future demise of humanity.

"I wonder if there's a countdown clock for that thing somewhere," she said between clicking through 756,668 search results.

I raised one eyebrow."Honey, do you think we could get past the tumors, aneurysms, and my sanity before worrying about a killer asteroid?" But she didn't hear me. She was already figuring out how she planned on telling everyone goodbye.         

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Ninja At A Drug Store

This weekend, I thought it would be a nice treat to surprise "Lois" with a little breakfast when she woke up. Normally I would whip something up, blueberry muffins, cinnamon pancakes, French toast - something easy. However, seen as how we had practically nothing in the cupboards for ingredients, a trip to Dunkin' Donuts seemed in order. 

Ok, ya, I know everyone's read about my love of Boston Cremes, so maybe Dunkin' Donuts was a little self-serving, but whatever. "Lois" was going to get sustenance without lifting a finger. In Houston, the 4th largest metropolis in the United States, there are a grand total of four Dunkin' Donuts, five if you count the one still listed on the company's web page, but has been closed long enough for large vines to have encased the building like a plane that crashed in a jungle 40 or 50 years ago. The limited number of locations is a sharp contrast to Chicago, where there were at least four Dunkin' Donuts within a three-block radius of my flat. One more reason I need to get back there. I digress. 

Point being, I had to drive a ways to get those Boston Cremes (and no George sightings either), which took too long and "Lois" woke up wondering where I had gone. As I was crawling into the good-ol' minivan she called. 

"Hey, where are you? I miss you."

"Aw, you're too cute. I miss you. Just headed out to get us some Dunkin' Donuts."

"Yay! Did you grab any Diet Coke?"

Dummy me. I should've remembered how she can't function in the morning without that crap. "Sure, honey. No problem. Be home in about 5 minutes." Thinking for a moment, I figured the quickest place to get a case would probably be a drug store on the way back. There's a CVS just a few lights down from our place that would work, and being fairly early, it only seemed logical that the place wouldn't be too busy. This assumption proved correct with only one lady at the check-out counter. 

It took about 30 seconds to grab a case and walk to the counter where the same lady was still having her items rung up. No biggie; she had a bunch of stuff in her cart, like a week's worth of unhealthy groceries that could give an elephant a heart attack, along with miscellaneous junk that always makes you wonder, who buys this crap? Apparently, this lady did. Whatever, who am I to judge. 

I heard the cashier announce the total, $85.98 and watched the junk lady pull out four $20 bills. Then it dawned on junk day that's not enough to cover the remaining $5.98 and asked if a check would be OK. I also noticed several novelty pens - Jonas Brothers ones no less - amongst her booty haul. They were worth $6 bucks total with tax.

Junk lady goes to write the check, and screwed it up. At this point I've been in line roughly 5 minutes, because on top of all this, she moves pretty slow. Like molasses in January as my mother always said. 

Put the pens back lady. I'm thinking. Who needs pens adorned with teeny boppers.

Junk lady started up with check number 2 - the last in the book I overheard her mention as she listed her address, phone number, and driver's license number. Don't banks pre-print this stuff for you? Oh wait, she forgot the number and dug in her purse, and dug, and dug. Digging like a rat through garbage or better, a cat in kitty litter. 

Why not just forget the pens? 

She's was still digging. Then she dumped the contents of her purse onto the counter most of which spilled onto the floor. 15 minutes and counting. Junk lady decided to abandon the search for the license, pulling out a credit card, but not before she stuffed everything back into her bag in a thoughtful manner as if she were a librarian returning books to their rightful location on a shelf.

The PENS lady. Your therapist just called and said to let it go. 

Mind you, the checkout line was now so long it looked like starving refugees lining up for a ration of rice handed out by aid workers. Not once did it occur to junk lady to maybe apologize as a polite courtesy, of course she also seemed to have a serious hard on for the irresistible combination of the Jonas Brothers and writing utensils, so common sense probably escaped her grasp. The cashier, God bless her, was as friendly as she could be, but as she examined the credit card she also informed oblivious-junk-glacier lady that she would need to provide a photo ID.

THE PEEEEEEEEEEEEEENS!!! The mother Smurfin' PEN! Before I grab them and jam them into my own eyeball.

Oblivious-junk-glacier lady started to dump her purse again before the girl at the register smartly said never mind and ran the card. With everything I just witnessed, it wasn't out the question that the card would be denied. Surprisingly it was approved. Everyone almost cheered when oblivious-junk-glacier lady (slowly) exited the store. 20 minutes of my life wasted.

Setting my the Diet Coke on the counter, I commented, "This will be a pretty simple transaction, Miss. One item and I have various means by which to pay - all of them swiftly."

The check-out girl chuckled. 

Eleven years of the hurry-up-and wait lifestyle in the Army taught me great patience in almost any situation except when at a drug store while holding a case of pop and standing in line behind oblivious-junk-glacier lady. A few minutes more and I was about to turn those stupid flipping pens into nunchucks and unleash some mad ninja skills on her. I'm a nice guy, but I have my moments.

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