Anti-Bucket List

Here is my list of things I don't want to do before I die.

1) Be on trial for Murder - I imagine I would be innocent but ask OJ about the stereotyping.

2) Contract an STD - Even though I would be a much livelier party guest with a coke and whores story from Bangkok, I don't think it's worth it.

3) Be mauled by any woodland creature - If it was a big woodland creature (like a bear) it would hurt. If it was a small woodland creature it would be embarrassing. I wouldn't want to wet myself and pass out every time a child came dressed as a chipmunk on Halloween.

4) Be kicked in the business by any farmland creature - If it was a big farmland creature (like a horse) it would hurt. If it was a small farmland creature like a gosling it would raise questions as to why my business was within kicking range of a gosling.

5) Be on trial for inappropriate conduct around small farmland creatures - OJ can still get dates. Good luck, being the only person on the small farmland animal sex offender website.

If I can avoid these five I will be off to a good start.

Barnes & Noble is my Crack House

I ABSOLUTELY DO NOT WANT BARNES & NOBLES AS A SPONSOR. They would just find me one day naked, twitching, in a book tepee, sniffing pages.

I can't leave that place without buying at least 3 books and I would buy 17 if I could only dedicate a larger part of my day to reading. I am not a reader of extraordinary skill, speed, or comprehension, but I read books. And I really like to buy books to read. I NEED TO OWN THEM. The library is not my Crack Palace. It does not take hold of me like the bookstore.

I wish I could lick the books at the checkout for a discount and to claim them as mine (perhaps I'll try).

"This book has been salivated. Is there a discount for that?"

"How do you know it was salivated?"

"These moist streaks on the front here."

"Those look fresh."

"I did see a woman with a goat."

"I'm sorry sir, but you are going to have to pay for that."

It was worth a shot. Licking is one thing, but I would certainly not even attempt to pee on the non-fiction, as that would soil my precious.

I do read everything I buy. I don't dog ear to mark pages. I like my books to remain as pure as can be. I don't highlight in them. I never highlighted books in college (and I was there awhile). Collecting degrees, not being a dumb-ass.

I rarely reread anything. Highlighting for me is like putting table scraps in a Ziploc before throwing them away. There is no need to give the extra food or passages of text special treatment when they are not going to be re-consumed. They need to look as healthy as possible on my trophy case. My conquests.

Asking Barnes & Nobles to be a sponsor is like asking Jack Daniel's to sponsor an AA meeting by providing the refreshment. Barnes & Nobles: "Please just stay away for the childrens' sake, think of the children."

Why Women have to multi-task

Because they make more work for themselves.

Issue 1: Putting Laundry Away

Man - Clean goes in drawer. Elapsed time = 2 sec.

Woman - Clean goes in, in reverse order of wearing (most recent on bottom), and under the clean clothes currently residing in drawer. Elapsed time = > 2 sec.

In this scenario, me = man, Christa = woman. I don't know how universally applicable this is, but me = man is not keeping track of clothing wear cycles. I do know when I have worn the same clothes for multiple days in a row because they start to smell (see Misplaced Stuff).

Less of an idiot today

Yesterday (early December 2008), I was waiting for the bus and I watched a young man (maybe 22) walk by who appeared cold. He was in jeans and a sweatshirt. It was 32 F and felt like 24. I imagine most might feel cold in this weather. As he passed I noticed an unusual sound was rising from the ground. I looked down to notice he was in flip flops. YOU IDIOT!

A much older and wiser man like myself knows that you need to wear socks with your flip flops when it is cold out. I am ready for shuffleboard at the retirement home recreation center TODAY. I have no issue wearing shorts, dark socks and sandals in public. Now, what I don't know is if I will buck the trend when I am 80 and wear baggy jeans and a grill, or be so advanced that I am wearing the style of a 130 year-old with my belt lashed tightly around my nipples pulling the pant cuff up to my knees, showing unmatched calf-length argyle socks and wearing glasses with lenses the size of ashtrays.

Now, I shouldn't be as harsh on this young man as I was once nearly as dumb as he. My typical goal during college was to see how late into the fall I could continue wearing shorts. I was in St. Louis so you can gauge the climate, but I would usually break within a week or so of Thanksgiving break as I had a 10-12 minutes walk to class, wore boxers, and updrafts would (I have to remember the rules) dehydrate the fruit so to speak. Why did I waste all my immunity when I was young? I'm an idiot too.

How many other dumb things have I done? Given that I am 12,000-and-change days old, idiocy comes in streaks, and alcohol has lowered my mental preventative systems too many times to count, I would guess 13,458,382. A little over a thousand a day, or just under one a minute. There are times when I will go up to 8, even 12 minutes between episodes, but I must consider there were moments where I probably racked up 5,000 to 10,000 in under an hour.

Say for example, when I went on an hour-long shrubbery-tackling streak, every split second after it started was a chance to stop tackling shrubbery and cease the idiocy, but it went on for an hour and many innocent shrubs lost all or a portion of their root system. I believe the biggest shrub ever successfully tackled was a seven-foot pine. It was recently planted. Not that that fact lessens the non-earth-friendliness of it, but I don't want to overstate my tackling prowess.

Being a frequent idiot myself, I am more able to recognize the idiocy of others. And let me tell you, IT IS EVERYWHERE! Go anywhere in public, sit down, look at the person on your left and then your right, odds are one of them has done in the last hour, or is thinking of doing, something even more stupid (stupider if you prefer) than what you just did, so don't beat yourself up (another form on idiocy). In fact, pick yourself up, head to Skyline and prove you were right when you said competitive eating was easy and would get you chicks.

E Speak: Blue Heat

September 12, 2008

Do I know how to work the camera?

Does a four-legged donkey know how to walk?

Does a two-legged giraffe still have a long neck?

Does a one-legged dog still enjoy licking himself?

Does a no-legged fish want a running shoe endorsement deal?

A resounding quintuple YES!

I call this one Blue Heat. It feels like you just put Icy Hot directly on your brain, doesn't it?





















The Sizzler,
E

College Prep

December 3, 2008

I think going to college is important. So important, I went three times. I have decided to put Emmy on the college track. I haven't hired a tutor. I haven't applied early bird to Berkeley. I do not recite the periodic table to her. No. I have begun teaching her the survival skills needed to get to her future diploma.

Step one: Order a pizza.
Step two: Practice rolling your own with a pepperoni.




















Step three: Realize practice has made you hungry and enjoy pizza while watching TV. Skipping the utensils, plates and general decorum.















Step four: Bet your friend you can finish all the pepperoni.















Step five: Lay around waiting for the boot and rally, wishing mid-terms weren't tomorrow.

The Legend of Corn-Fu

If I owned a farm, I would grow things. My very basic understanding of farming tells me that is what you do on a farm. I would rotate corn and soybeans. Crop rotation is a more advanced farming topic, I believe it helps the soil retain more of its bodily essence. I would then setup a tofu production facility. I would then learn how to make a tofu-like foodstuff from corn. I would copyright and trademark the name Corn-Fu. Maybe also Korn-Fu and license music from the band for promotion purposes.

Next, I would contract a Japanese animation team to create a cartoon based on The Adventures of Corn-Fu. Corn-Fu would be a master of some version of martial arts, Kung-Fu would be the most obvious candidate. To-Fu would be his older and wiser skill master. Corn-Fu would have a sidekick named Sprout, an alfalfa sprout that moves like a snake with its head up and can beam some form of a fat-dissolving pulsar from his head. Corn-Fu would travel by motorcycle sidecar, driven by To-Fu's larger cousin To-Furkey. To-Furkey would have no special skills besides his Yo-Yo of Death.

Corn-Fu could have a sworn enemy, Ethan Ol who ransacked Corn-Fu's peaceful childhood village in a thirst for power. Ethan Ol wrongfully resurrects Corn-Fu's people as high fructose zombies taking many sinister forms. There would be numerous carnage- and chaos-filled battles. Demand for my trademarked and copyrighted Corn-Fu would skyrocket.

Celebs would wear Corn-Fu t-shirts. Merchandise sales would take-off.

"Who's Fu are U?" campaign would begin. Corn-Fu's signature facial hair would be the new Milk mustache.

"There nothing like being Fu'ed for the first time." Product trial accelerates.

"To Fu or not To Fu, that is the question." Communities organize local Fu Fests.

"Go Fu yourself, or a friend, neighbor or complete stranger." Global Fu sales overtake global meat and Cheetos sales combined.

Spontaneous F-U chants heard at sporting events, grocery stores and elementary school cafeterias. Global hunger is ended. U2 sings a song about it. Then changes its name to F-U2, and outsells the entire automotive industry. And you were there to witness it all.

E Speak: Charades

December 6, 2008

"Emmy, do you want to play a game?"

Whatever Dada.

"Guess what I am?"

Fire away.

"Oh-OH, ah-AH" (chest thump with fist)

A man. What are you? 12? My turn.





















"You're a bread monster."

No.

"A baguette monster."

No.

"Hungry?"

Kenny G, you IDIOT. Could it be any MORE obvious? You are 12, but mentally like 2. I would have also accepted didgeridoo player. Even Recorbo, the elephant whose trunk is also a recorder. Hungry isn't even a guess. It's your mailing address in Idiotville.

Still Champion,
E

Children's Museum

Sept 13th, 2008

Here is a trip we took to the Children's Museum in Cincinnati. E enjoyed the water features, but had to wear a "community raincoat" that smelled like musty sea turtles. It wasn't like we picked the bad one, they all smelled. All smelled like musty sea turtles.















There are several activity areas in the museum and E enjoyed the plastic, steerable, immovable objects. I hope for great things for The Biscuit (nickname, one of dozens), but from this picture I can only get Lawn Care Professional.




















Or maybe a golf cart driving instructor. Lastly, I don't know how or why, but I feel like she is "Sweatin' to the Oldies" with Richard Simmons in this shot.















I don't know what Richard is up to these days, but it wouldn't surprise me if he was teaching an early morning aerobics class to sea turtles wearing raincoats at the Cincinnati Children's Museum.

E Speak: Stink Eye

I have been working on my stink eye. It is pretty ferocious. I don't know what it is for.





















Grrr,
E

Tinkle Queen

Big Baby E likes to take baths. Baths get her excited. By the time she is down to only the diaper she is clinging to you like an iron-grip koala desiring transport to the bathing facility. Once the tub is ready, we proceed to remove her diaper with a bit of ceremony. I think we started to add a little extra to make the bath more exciting in the beginning, but now it is just a part of the routine.

For the ceremony, I sit on the toilet holding her under the arms, standing, facing away from me and start the song. Da-NA-na-NA-na-NA, t-tsch...t-tsch. Yes, I am teaching my daughter to strip to music; seductive music. Maybe not teaching, but at least creating an association with "fun times ahead." Is it ever too early to discourage a career in the broadly-defined "adult entertainment" industry? I am an adult by age and am entertained by this.

Yesterday, she was indeed very excited about bath time. As Christa held the freshly removed diaper cupped in her hand, the Squirt Burger laid one on me. I don't claim to understand much of the inner workings of the female parts, but I am always impressed by the specific directionality of the flow. This one shot right to my inner thigh, a good three seconds.

My first thought was "Squeeze your legs together." WHAT!? Why was I trying to protect the tiled bathroom floor? Why was I SO OK with being peed on that I wanted to keep as much of the pee as possible between my legs? This was not just a fact of parenthood. This was me trying to turn my legs into a watertight flesh cup to retain as much urine on and about my person as possible. The urine was not providing relief from a jellyfish sting. It was simply pee on me. And I apparently wanted to keep it that way.

I wish I could say it was out of love, but it makes more sense that I love the tile floor in that scenario, since E would more than likely have stepped in my pee pond had the retaining walls held another couple seconds. And desiring your child to step in a urine pond is not very loving.

Dr. Pepper Part Deux (Pre-Historic #2)

Here is the other historic post from October 2006.

(Action)

How many flavors in a Dr. Pepper?

As I enjoyed my lunch today, I glanced at my beverage of choice this day, which like most days was Dr. Pepper. On the can was a graphic stating it contained 23 flavors. 23? They have made this a selling point in their TV campaigns. Why? Dr. Pepper has one flavor, and that flavor is "Tasty." Ice cream shops have 23 flavors, the whole shop, not each ice cream. If pressed I would have considered Dr. Pepper a version of a black cherry soda with a subtle tweak of something. No wine claims more than five flavors, notes and finishes, but Dr. Pepper goes with 23.

What could these 23 be? According to the can they are all "artificial." I think this is a chemist's way to say "beyond comprehension of human taste buds." Name a fruit, vegetable or spice and it is probably in there. Say my uneducated assumption of black cherry is present. Add blackberry, raspberry, plum, grape, cantaloupe and mango. I am at seven. I would say caramel, but the label says only caramel color is a part of this concoction. Since it is called Dr. "Pepper" I will assume there are some peppers in it. Green, red, jalapeño and three other undisclosed exotic varieties. I'm at 13. Only ten left. Cinnamon, nutmeg, cilantro, parsley, just a hint.

Only six left, since it is "Doctor" Pepper maybe something from the apothecary. Yes apothecary, since the can clearly states "Est. 1885." And an apothecary in Texas no less. Swamp juice, prairie dust and ground armadillo shell. If we consider the Texas well water as having an innate flavor, I am going to guess the flavor master probably spat tobacco juice and urinated in the barrel to top off the brew.

Now that I have devised the component flavors of my loose meat sandwich accompaniment of choice, who would actually want to drink it? Not many I assume. So, I ask why not cut to the chase. Advertising 23 flavors does not make me believe the Messiah of carbonated beverages resided in Waco in the late 1800's and his gift to the world was Dr. Pepper. It makes me believe somebody was trying to home brew a varnish remover and forced "Slow Cousin Enos" to drink it and much to the his surprise, Enos loved it.

In summary, 23 bad, "Tasty" good. Let's leave it a mystery.

Thank you for your time.

(And scene)

Again not too bad. Obviously the 23 flavors of Dr. Pepper has occupied what would otherwise be valuable brain space for quite some time.

Pre-Historic First Blog Entry

You thought I was going to type something like, "Me Like Rocks." But instead I provide a little nostalgia. I attempted to start a blog in October 2006, I made it to 2 posts. So, I guess I did actually start one, it just ended really fast. Here is the historic first entry including the warning label.

(Action)

Warning: Past performance is no indication of future results. Consult your physician before reading while operating machinery, if pregnant, or in the midst of a homicidal rage.

As the first entry in my blog I feel it should be significant in some way. Unfortunately no one has suffered any hardship to bring you this blog, so I can't play on your sympathies. This blog has no business plan, no desire for global domination or even local change. I have no intention or aptitude to cure disease. I have no otherworldly abilities or relationships to speak of. I have not mastered the English language and it is essentially the first and only language I've tried.

Having just reread the opening paragraph, I think a readership goal of 3 is reasonable. The benefits of readership will be limited. There will be no prizes given away. Rarely will you leave feeling smarter, at least not from knowledge gained, but perhaps relatively speaking.

Now that I have floored expectations, and sold my abilities and the benefits of reading, we can begin.

(And scene)

I don't think that was too bad. Fortunately, I have come up with a business plan to come up with bad business plans for my second try.

Generation E

Copyright it. Trademark it. Sell it on a t-shirt. Create new business lingo, write a book and make coin on a speaking tour.

November 30th, 2008

Here we sit at the computer. E is about 14 1/2 months, already seeking an IM buddy with shared interests in dishwashers, lip balms and snail mail retrieval. She can already seemingly mindlessly pound the keyboard and turn on functions I didn't even know existed. I am stuck right near the border of Gen X and Y depending on who you talk to and find I don't need a cell phone, but have one just in case. But Generation E will have digital lunch boxes capable of making micro-loans to other Gen E'ers in a vast network of cookie-denominated virtual playgrounds. And the E-Biscuit will lead them.

Look at her. She is actually using both the right and left mouse buttons simultaneously with a SINGLE FINGER! I am neither single nor this coordinated.














As a part of the Dada pledge, I will try and provide guidance and encouragement throughout her life, but I feel I might be doing so blindly in a matter of months as she will soon be e-vanced (not nearly as good as Generation E) beyond my abilities to comprehend. I love you E-Burgers, let me know when the spaceship is coming.

E Speak: T-Day #2

Saturday Nov 29th, 2008 (Oh yea, I can do dates.)

We had another Thanksgiving. This time with Dada's (Lloyd) side. This time in MY HOUSE! Again, people eating and looking at me. But this time there was a different one, Harrison, my cousin. He is like a less-nimble, less-furry version of Mr. Puddy. Mr. Puddy is the cat. Mr. Puddy is sometimes entertaining, but far from useful. Mr Puddy can manage to get off the floor by himself. I can't say the same for Harrison, currently.














We all sat down at the table and since he can't move as well, just stared at his Dada (Matt, younger brother of my Dada) wondering "What in the hell do I hear breathing behind me?"















It is I. The Smoochie Monster.














"Dada spin me around for a look at this thing," he said. "Holy Jesus! It's huge. But I like it."














He then tried to get fresh with me. Warning: Mature content.














You can't out smoochie THE SMOOCHIE MONSTER! He seemed a little alarmed by my confidence and assertiveness.















He then tried to impress me by being held vertically. Unfortunately, been there, done that.














Anything else kiddo? Then he did the best penguin impression I have ever seen. I went for the high five, but he held character. A man of principle. Very noble. Knightly even.















Then he said, "Try and get this face out of your mind."















I am thankful for your intensity, Harrison and for Nana, Pop, Unkie Matt and Auntie Danza for visiting.

Until we meet again,
E

Deserted Island

What would be the one thing I would want with me if I were stranded on a deserted island?

A fully-fueled and staffed airplane capable of taking off on or near the deserted island.

Oh, I should have said "my family." No. 1) Neither Christa or E float well enough to be bound by palm fronds and paddled to safety. 2) Neither goes by the alias "MacGyver." 3) I love them dearly, but after a couple weeks they are going to start looking tasty. And no one wants to be chewing on baby feet when the Coast Guard arrives.

If it was a nice enough island, I would want 1) afore-mentioned plane, 2) complete food supply chain including preparers, 3) fully-functional hospital with celebrity residence wing, and 4) my family.

Coming in at 3724) My favorite book, unless it was "How to construct and staff a fully-fueled jump jet in 24 hours with stuff you can find on your own deserted island." Which would make an excellent DVD set. Order now and I will throw "How to make a human life raft" for no extra charge.

974159) My favorite DVD. What would I do with it? Reflect the sun to toast insects or momentarily blind sea creatures to eat. All the neighboring natives would find is "Dead man with shiny trinket."

Who am I kidding? My day-glow white Welsh accountant flesh would be glowing red like Rudolph's nose by nightfall. NASA would pick me up with thermal imaging and send the Navy thinking I was a tropical Yeti.

E Speak:T-Day #1

My Thanksgiving consisted of two Thanksgivings, one with each half of the family. The Mama (Norris) half went first on Thursday. What is Thanksgiving you ask? I don't know. It seems like another day where other people want to watch me eat and make me self-conscious.

We went to Aunt Angie's boyfriend Mike's house. I traveled in my monkey suit, literally. It's blue, one-piece, and has a monkey on it.

What am I thankful for? Grapes - seedless, quartered and served on a plate no higher than 27".




















Next, Dada went and rearranged Mike's living room furniture so we could attempt a mock, homey family photo supposedly for our Christmas cards. If you want to make yourself a welcome guest, go ahead and just move some furniture around.
















Then I got to put on my T-Day outfit. And work it. Fortunately, Mike had a nice stretch of hardwood in his kitchen that I could strut my stuff on. My starting rate is $4.25/half hour plus grapes.




















I gave myself a tour of the staircase. It looks like a futuristic, Asian-inspired prison, but since it wasn't I was happy to see the inside.




















Grammy asked me if I had been good this year. I looked at Mama, secretly pleading "Please don't blow this for me." She winked.

"Absolutely, she's been an angel."















You don't believe her? Well, I will let two people hold me for at least 8 seconds, breaking my personal record by 3 seconds, AND I will allow documentation.

First up, Grampy.





















17 seconds! A new record. As you can tell by her elbow, Mama was only a foot away. Next up, Aunt Angie.





















13 seconds, not as good as Grampy, but Mama backed all the way out of the frame. I watched her closely for signs of imminent departure.

You may have noticed I keep a wipe on hand. You never know when you might need to swipe a boogie away to maintain your lady-like appearance. Mike didn't seem to get it, so I gave him a personal lesson. He wasn't even using a tissue. Everyone seemed to think this was funny. There is nothing funny about snot danglers or gooey fingers.















I give my thanks to everyone.
E

Blogging Rules

After my last post, I learned that some family rules of blog posts were needed.

The Rules:
1) Any discussion involving body parts needs approval by at least one member of the family older than 4 (age subject to change in 2011).
1a) Body parts will be predominantly described using anatomically correct verbiage.
2) Swearing by any family member under 4 will be kept to a minimum.
3) Critiquing of "wiser" generation's childcare techniques will be attempted to be only medicinal/clinical in nature.
4) Photographs of "no one wants to see that" will not be seen/shown.
5) Any failing business ideas I come up with will be ferociously protected in intellectual property court. If you really want to fail, find your own way to do it.
6) Wooing of sponsorships will be conducted publicly through "business class" blog entires and will not involve discussion of body parts as prohibited by Rule 1 and 1a (sorry mortgage brokers).
7) A full third of quoted text will be reproduced nearly word for word. You can "quote" me on that.
8) Sexual terminology will be kept to a minimum, including made up terms such as the "Canadian Air Mattress."
9) My bowel movements are my own business unless directly questioned under oath in a court of law.
10) I will almost guarantee via virtual hand shake that you will not be offended by every single blog post.

E Speak: You Wean-E, You Suffer

My mom has a nice pair. Here let me show you.

"Emmy we can not take and post pictures of Mama's breasts."

Whatever. You know you'd like a shot of them too. Anyway, they are nourishing and comforting and have always been there for me. Until a few weeks ago, when they started to visit less frequently. I used to get tired and there they were, then I would wake up and there they were again. They were like my two best friends. I named them "Good Morning" and "Good Night". Good Night is on the right. I created a song so it was easier for me not to confuse them.

Good Morning is where the milk is pouring
and is a wonderful start to my day.
Good Night is on the right
I visit when it's time to hit the hay.

I break into it like Michigan J. Frog from Warner Bros. and then quickly revert back to being a baby.
















Well, needless to say this was agitating. Every week my friends would visit one less time. They didn't go on vacation, they just became shut-ins during the day. I would wake up, head over and knock politely, but no one came out to play. I pulled back the shades and looked in and they were certainly still there, but sleeping or something. I poked and grabbed at them and nothing. MAMA I NEED TO PERFORM CPR! I THINK THEY NEED TO BE MANUALLY REVIVED!

"They are hibernating," she said.

THEY ARE NOT FREAKING BEARS!

"Let's just snuggle."

SNUGGLING IS FOR WUSSIES! I got up 30 minutes early so I could see my friends and now ALL I GET IS A SNUGGLE! I AM BOYCOTTING ALL NAPS AND AM GOING TO HOLD MY BREATH UNTIL IT COMES OUT THE OTHER END! YOUR BREASTS WERE BORN FREE JUST LIKE MINE AND I DEMAND YOU SET THEM FREE!

"Why don't we try some big girl milk."

WHY DON'T I THROW MY POO AT YOU!

"Watch Mommy try some."

I've seen what you eat, and that does not boost my confidence. I completely understand the fact that you don't want me to come home from middle school and expect to tap the teet after some Cheetos, but come on! At least trade me some Diet Coke or Starbucks.

"You're a big girl."

Compared to what? The cat? An eggroll? Bigger girl means bigger caloric intake which means more boob time. Try and shoot a hole in that logic Plato. If you're short on time just grab the pump cups and tap them both. I'll use a straw. I'll call it the boob tube. We'll make millions.

"Your father would be proud."

Hell, yea! What was I talking about?

"Saving the planet."

I know you're lying, but I can't produce any evidence to prove it.

Later,
E

Designer Jeans

I love my wife dearly and respect her position on "buy quality" in regards to apparel. I agree in a general sense, but she believes there is a direct relationship between the "prestige" of the brand and the quality of the garment. I feel the prestige of the brand reflects somewhat on the actual quality but only tips the scales when everything else is equal and that you have to pay the manufacturer back for their branding efforts at the register regardless of the actual quality of the merchandise. Admittedly, her definition of quality is more fit and mine is more longevity.

Take Nike vs. New Balance. Nike = $$$, fancy, but seams explode in three months. New Balance = $$, not as fancy, last for at least a year.

I emphasize with her since anytime I visit the ladies half of a store my brain fizzles trying to comprehend the multi-dimensional sizing charts. Yes, you have to actually consider the physical dimensions (of which women's lovely curves add complication to), the interaction of time and dimension (when will the item be worn and what do I expect my dimensions to be then), and circumstantial interactions (what will I wear with it, what do I expect the other people to wear at that time, and what are wind conditions expected to be).

Men's sizing is awesome, we have a waist, a leg and an upper body. These are the three things we need to recall in order to buy clothes.

Women are mathematicians when it comes to fit, they are exact and use a multitude of factors and equations in the decision. Men are like engineers, nothing exact, round up if you have to. Let me get to the point of this post.

I need jeans. Nice jeans that can be worn to work. I don't know if I am stuck in the past or simply cheap in 2008, but $50 or so should buy a respectable pair of pants. Christa might say otherwise, so I listen and try to comprehend her sometimes.

I go to try on "quality," i.e. designer jeans. I travel to a local retail experience known as Rookwood here in Cincinnati and go to a store called Dr. Mojoe; purveyor of fine jeans. The staff was very helpful in finding me a pretty basic jean as designer jeans go; dark wash, no weird stuff like wiskering, razors, or some man's handwriting on my ass.

I headed into a dressing room with three pairs and pulled them on one leg at a time, like the common man I am. Each pair looked like jeans with maybe a fancy button or two and artistic man-stitching on the back pockets. I am still not sure why they are called designer. So I sit down in a pair to see how they would feel during a day in the cube. AH-HAH, now I know why they are called designer, they are designed for standing-use only. I can put a soup bowl in the gap between the jeans and my back/ass flesh. (I am wearing underwear, don't worry Mom.) I tried another pair and it happened again, I don't know if my ass covers more surface area when seated and thus the material is pulled down, but I don't want a drafty ass crack in the name of fashion. I conferred with the staff and the excellent gentleman said crack was hard to avoid while sitting.

My conclusion: The purpose of designer jeans is to wear them only when standing, so everyone else who cares about designer jeans can look at the artistic man-stitching on your ass and say "Wow, nice jeans. Is that your cell phone and passport in there? I'm up for an adventure."