Pectorals

Ever since I hit puberty I've had a desire for pectorals. There is something I admire about a nice set of pecs. Not the kind of pecs that can hold a pencil vertically while flexing, just the kind of pecs that make fellow Lagoon-a-beach go'ers think, "Those are sweet pecs!" (exclamation point optional).

I'm turning 31 years old this month. It's not really a landmark birthday, but now that I'm a full year into my 30's, I'm starting to realize that if I don't have pecs now... I probably never will.

Last year my best friend decided when he turned 30 he wanted to be able to say "I'm in the best shape I've ever been in". He didn't quite make it, but I was thinking the other day about how "in shape" I am. I'm definitely NOT at my peak now, so I starting thinking about when my "peak" happened and how I missed it. I decided it was when I was in the Police Academy about 9 years ago. It's not really much to brag about, though. Even though the physical part of the academy involved a lot of running, it was pretty simple for me since I only weighed 120 pounds (all you women out there who scoff and say "Well I weigh more than YOU"... please don't. I know you're trying to make me feel better, but for a dude, small is NOT good... it's like the complete opposite for women so please don't compare us. It makes me feel even more wussy than I already do. Imagine if we were hanging out and you said "I got on the scale the other day and I weigh 130 lbs", then right after that I said, "Whoa! I weigh LESS than you!")

I've never had a hard time with the push-ups or sit-ups, again, since I was only 120 lbs. The hardest part for me was running 1.5 miles in 12 minutes, and it really wasn't THAT hard. I think I actually ran it in a little under 10 minutes.

Well, I got an email at work the other day that invited me (along with everyone else in my department) to participate in our Be Fit program. The program, essentially, is a $75 incentive payment if you can pass the minimum physical requirements from the Academy. It is 30 push-ups in 1 minute; 30 sit-ups in 1 minute; and 1.5 miles in 16 minutes. I decided I was going to get an easy $75. It's been about 7 years since I've ran further than 10 steps and I've had absolutely no reason to do any push-ups or sit-ups. To top it all off, I've gained about 30 lbs to a whopping total of 150 lbs soaking wet.

I accidentally didn't show up for the Physical Incentive. I told my wife on Saturday that I had intended on making the easy $75, but had forgotten about it until it was too late. We happened to be outside playing in the sprinklers at the time and about 10 minutes later, Betsy made a playful comment about my "man-boobs". Seriously? Man-boobs? Me? It actually made me feel good. I was actually gaining enough weight that my breastess-ez were sagging.

Saturday night after the kids were in bed, Betsy made another comment about how I was visibly jiggling while I brushed my teeth. Then she asked if I thought I could actually pass the test. I laughed and told her I've never in my life struggled with the push-up or sit-up portion of the test. I've always been one of the few participants who could bust out all 30 push-ups with my hands forming the diamond in about 20 seconds. Betsy called my bluff.

I went into the front room and gave her my phone. I told her to tell me when it turned to 10:18 and I'd start the push-ups. I slowly got to my hands and knees and just as I took my first deep breath she said "Go!".

Thirty pounds and 7 years is a pretty big deal, evidently. I did the first 14 pretty quickly, but then I had to rest (you have to rest in the up position and can not arch your back or stick your butt up). The last 16 push-ups I did in 3 push-up intervals with about 5 seconds between each set. I wanted to die. After I finished I went into the kitchen to get a drink of water while Betsy was laughing. When I got back into the front room, I starting to explain to Betsy why it was so difficult for me, but she was still laughing. Turns out she was laughing because I was only saying about two words between each breath I was taking.

I actually think I could have got the $75, but I would have been miserable for at least 10 days. In fact, today is Tuesday and my arms still shake when I try to lift my Dr. Pepper to my lips... and I still cough whenever I laugh. I guess that's what happens when you use parts of your lungs that have been dormant for 7 years.

I think I'll just wait until technology progresses to where I can get pectoral implants. I'm happy with pecs that are strictly cosmetic.

PS That's not a photo of my man-boob. I trim my boobs every two weeks. I just found that photo on the World Wide Web.

Resident Evil: Raccoon City

Many people think raccoons are so sweet and cuddly. They think they might be little mischievous, but harmless. Let me tell you about a little run-in I had with a raccoon a little while ago and it might change your mind... or it might change your opinion of me. Either way, something's gonna change.

Several months ago I was relaxing with my family on a Saturday morning. We were watching cartoons and eating some cereal and enjoying our weekend. All of a sudden I hear my dogs barking outside. Not the normal bark that signifies playing. This was "I need to wrap my jaws around that thing" kind of bark. I open our front door and I see my dogs attacking the fence in my side yard which wrapped around to the front of my house. My dogs are big enough that I actually thought they might break my chain link fence down. I glanced over my front railing to see what they were barking at and I saw a very large raccoon. It looked really scared and was cowering in the corner between my concrete foundation and concrete front steps. I quickly went to the back door and brought my dogs inside. I gave them a quick "once-over" to make sure they hadn't tangled with the raccoon. There were no obvious injuries so I closed the back door and went back around to the front to see if the raccoon had decided to continue in his mischievous adventures. He hadn't. He was still standing there breathing really heavily. He was also bleeding, but I couldn't tell where he was bleeding from.

I went back into my house and grabbed half of my cinnamon raisin bagel that I prepared with the perfect amount of cream cheese. I wasn't excited about sharing, but figured the raccoon could eat my bagel and then be on his way once he had his energy back. My boys were both begging me to let them go outside to play with the raccoon. I gritted my teeth and tossed the portion of bagel onto the ground approximately 6 inches in front of Mr. Raccoon. He didn't immediately jump for it so I thought maybe he was still trying to catch his breath. I closed the front door and started trying to figure out how he had been injured. We lived on a fairly busy road so it was possible he had been hit by a car and managed to mischievously find his way to my front porch, tipping over garbage cans on his way. It was also possible that a different neighborhood dog had gotten a hold of him. We shared a property line with several other large lots with dogs roaming on them.

After about 20 minutes I opened the door and noticed my bagel was still untouched and the raccoon hadn't budged. I had to lean over my railing to see the raccoon and he never once looked up to see who was making all of the commotion above him. On top of all this, my kids were still wanting to go out and play. I didn't feel comfortable with my kids playing so close to a mischievously injured and unpredictable, bloody raccoon.

I called Animal Control to let them know about our situation. Animal Control informed me that they do not respond to calls involving raccoons. They said something about how they weren't domesticated animals and therefore weren't equipped to deal with them... whatever the crud that means. They DID give me the phone number to the Division of Wildlife something or other. So I called them... but got their answering machine. Apparently they think that all miscellaneous wildlife residing in Utah hibernate every weekend, all year long and so they don't find it necessary to work on the Sabbath or the special day before when we all get ready for Sunday.

So at this point I start wondering what my options were. I have a gun, but I live within city limits and it would be illegal to discharge my firearm. Plus the raccoon was really close to my house and I wasn't excited about shooting toward my own home. I remembered that I had a large dog kennel, but was trying to picture myself attempting to coax a large, evil, wild raccoon into the medium-sized enclosure. It wasn't gonna happen.

I walked back into the front yard to see if maybe I could scare it away... without getting too close, of course. I got to the bottom of my steps and turned to look at the raccoon. For the first time the raccoon looked up at me and made eye contact. I had closed my front door behind me, but I heard it open as I was staring at this raccoon. I noticed it was bleeding from one of it's ears. It bared it's teeth at me and made a really odd gurgling sound. It looked like it might actually jump or at least try to jump toward me. I looked up and saw my boys standing in the doorway beginning to walk toward the railing to see the adorable mischievous raccoon. I instructed them rather harshly to get their skinny butts back inside and watch The Wiggles. They begrudgingly complied and I shifted my attention back to Mr. Raccoon who was still baring his teeth, but was swaying from side-to-side and slightly counter-clockwise like he'd had a few too many to drink. This creeped me out more than raccoon blood oozing out of his ears. I decided I needed to do something.

I went back in the house and told Betsy to take our kids into the back bedroom to finish watching the Wiggles and the pit stains that grow slowly during every song. She asked me what I was going to do and I told her I was going to kill the raccoon before it hurt anyone or any neighborhood dog.


I walked out to my garage and grabbed the only thing I thought would do the trick quickly and effectively. Our garden shovel. I walked back into the front yard and stood about 10 feet in front of the raccoon for several minutes trying to decide if I had it in me. The only animal I've ever purposely killed in my life up until then was bees, worms, ants, and other random insects. I was moving pretty quickly it seemed. I mean, there was no natural progression from insects to hamsters to frogs to kittens to rabbits, THEN to dog-sized raccoons.

I also studied the shovel quite a bit. I decided to use the back of the shovel and hit the raccoon as hard as I possibly could on the top of his head. I felt like one hit should do it if I could hit him just right. I don't have the best depth perception so I actually started thinking, "What if I swing too long and the shovel skips off the house or stairs? That would slow my swing down enough where it might just piss this thing off." Then I thought, "What if I swing too short and end up breaking the raccoons nose off? Then he'll really want to scratch me up with those razor sharp mischievous claws."


Meanwhile this raccoon is staring at me, gurgling, showing me his bloody sharp teeth and swaying all over the place. I decided if I was going to do it, I needed to do it right then. So I whipped the shovel around my back, brought it above my head, and swung it down as hard as I possibly could.

I was a perfect hit. If I played baseball, it would have totally been a home run. And the raccoon didn't even seem to see it coming. He was too distracted bleeding and thinking about what other mischievous acts he could get up to in the afterlife, he didn't even notice my shovel.

The sound it made was slightly higher pitched than I would have imagined. It was the sound of steel hitting furred skull that I couldn't get out of my head for about 3 days (that's how I know I could never be serial killer). After I hit him, he dropped just like I expected him to, but I swear he looked like he was trying to get up and kill me. I swung the shovel about 5 more times in a panic, thinking he was going to find his way up my pant leg like a squirrel and reek havoc in my crotch. After the 5th swing, he was still convulsing and a thought popped into my head. It was "Flip the shovel around and lop off his head like they do in all those zombie movies." So that's what I tried to do. It seems, however, that eating garbage gives raccoons unnaturally tough skin and fur. It was either that, or maybe that 130 pounds behind a shovel just doesn't cut it (pun intended).

So finally, the raccoon stopped moving, but he wasn't fooling anybody. It took me a really long time to build up the courage to shovel this raccoon into a garbage bag and put him in the can. I kept thinking maybe he wasn't dead and was gonna jerk his head up, bare his bloody teeth at me and gargle the words, "That hurt, what you did to me with that shovel".

He didn't though. He was dead. I'm sure he's still dead unless someone buried him in that Pet Semetary.

Saturday Morning Post

Remember a couple of weeks ago I mentioned that I would not be putting much energy into my weekend posts since not very many people care to peruse my blog on the weekend. I know this because of the extreme lack of comments left on my blog on Saturday and Sunday. Plus, my best friend John just posted one of my favorite posts since he started writing his blog about 6 months ago.

Side Note: I was actually reading John's blog a while back and noticed a grammatical error that was very very horrendous... even by John's standards. I called him to point it out so he could change it before all of his friends read this particular post. John told me that he was driving to a meeting and wouldn't be by a computer for about 10 hours so he'd be unable to change it. I volunteered to make the correction for him (since we both have the same password for everything [long story]). So I logged into his blog, made the change, and then looked at his lists of posts to see if he had any "in the works". Sure enough, I saw a post called "The Truth Is...". I read the post and was instantly jealous that he'd thought of the idea first. It was such a great idea and the nuggets of John Trivia he was revealing were fascinating gems (all of which I knew, but were entertaining nonetheless).

My point is that more than half of my "blog buddies" I actually stole from John. I guess we're technically sharing them, but now that John has a sweet post for everyone to read... I'm afraid my blog will just be an afterthought... which gives me even more of a reason to make this weekend post brief and simple. This plan has already kind of backfired since I've rambled on for longer than I intended.

Aaaaaannnnnyway... most people think when they get to college their technique for doing homework assignments needs to change. They make an extra effort to sound mature in their writing styles and focus on trying to give the professors exactly what they ask for. I have a hard time with that. Especially when professors start off the semester by telling the class they need to keep a "journal". Then they proceed to give you a topic for each "journal" entry. AND they tell you to write one-single-spaced page! Criminy. A whole page? Single spaced? Seriously?

Well, no matter how hard I tried I could never make the whole page sound intelligent, so eventually I stopped trying. I got to a point where I would start out answering the question, but then I'd throw in a story that I might actually write in a REAL LIFE journal (if I kept one). Then I struggled to tie my story into the topic the professor asked me to write about. I found an example that I'll share for this weekends Lazy Post. Here you go:

Journal 2 August 29 Cameron Daley English 3210

Looking at language and structure, how does the tone and focus shift as she moves between spring and summer?

I think this book would have fun to write. As I read it, I notice that Hubbell seems to be just typing at random, jotting down her thoughts with little regard to content. If something interesting happened, then she writes about it. If she has a question, she asks it. If she happens to discover something new about her environment or herself, she writes that down, as well. Sometimes her answers are her own. Hubbell earned the answer so why should she just give the answer away to anyone who might wonder the same thing she has? It could just as easily be her selfishness at not wanting to share as it could be her refusal to spell everything out for her audience. She may just want us to work a little bit in order to retrieve the answers that she's worked so hard to attain.

I don't know much about the tone in regard to transitioning from spring to summer, but I've noticed that it seems like Hubbell is enjoying herself a bit more. She isn't as melancholy. She appears to be branching out and experiencing more of her surroundings. I'm not sure why it seems like that since she's stated obviously that she's very familiar with her estate and keeping bees, but regardless, Hubbell is having fun. She likes to tell stories.

About two weeks ago I woke up in the middle of the night because the ring finger on my left hand was itching like crazy. I was scratching it like mad and I was surprised I wasn't bleeding. That's how hard I was scratching. But it was three in the morning and I couldn't be bothered to find out what was causing the infernal itch. I went back to sleep and awoke four hours later with a gargantuan fat lip. It was the creepiest feeling when the realization sunk in that I'd been bit by something twice during the night. Even creepier was the thought that I woke up in between bites. My wife is pregnant and almost threw up when she realized a spider or house centipede had been crawling on my face at some point in the evening. But it doesn't take much to tip my wife over the edge of expulsion lately.

This is a true story that has not been exaggerated in the least, and it's a fun story to tell. I understand why Hubbell has decided to write like this. The only problem must be her inability to witness the reactions the readers have to her anecdotes.

First Photo's

Betsy asked me to put some of these photo's on my blog. She didn't specify which ones to put on and I have my favorites so that's what I'm posting. Betsy isn't happy with any photo's she's in... ever... so no matter what I do, if she's in it, I shouldn't have posted it.

There's a girl in our ward who takes these pictures in a studio in her basement. I know that everyone knows someone nowadays who does photography, but this girl is pretty freakin' good at what she does. Anyway... here's the first professional photo's of Season. We have about 80 of them and I think these are a few of the best:

KSL

I'm totally addicted to KSL.com. I'm usually more interested in the comments than in the actual stories. I go through spurts when I can't get enough of the comment boards. I'll make a comment on 3 or 4 stories in about 10 minutes and then spend the next 7 hours bouncing from comment to comment to see if my comments are being voted "funny" (it's amazing how much satisfaction I get from strangers voting my comments as "funny"). Sometimes someone will reply to my comment and I'll start a dialogue with them that takes place bit by bit over the course of several hours or as long as several days.

Occasionally I'll find opportunity to make a comment that I KNOW is funny, but is also bordering on inappropriate. I almost always take my chances just to see how it plays out. At least monthly, someone will get so extremely offended at a comment I've made that they'll reply to me and let me have it. At that point I'll begin a banter (see below) that ends up getting other people riled up against me... sometime to a point where I fear for my life... but then I do it all again the next day.

I go by the alias "Hobbes" on KSL, but I also have a different alter ego named "Western Family." Western Family will occasionally jump in and come to Hobbes' rescue if he's getting beat up too badly. Don't tell anyone, though. I don't want people knowing that I agree with myself when nobody else does.

The comments below are from a story about how a noise ordinance law is on the table that would (in part) force motorcycles to quiet their loud pipes so they don't irritate the crud out of everyone around them.

Have a great day.

Totally Inappropriate

For some reason, I was the only one of my siblings who had a blog until recently (my older brother Ryan just started one a couple of weeks ago). I'm surprised my other two brothers and my sister don't have one. They're all hilarious and I'd love to read their humorous takes on their respective Life Events.

So I was looking through some of the photo's I have saved on my thumb drive and I found some family photos I'd like to share... one of which is PG-13, so if you're not 13 years of age, then make sure your parents aren't in the room when you scroll to the photo.

Last Halloween Ryan dressed up as a priest and my younger brother dressed up as a boyscout. You can see from the photo that the boyscout shirt was an extra small, but that's all the D.I. had available. So near the end of the party we all start making off color jokes about how Ryan keeps on checking Kyle out and kind of eyeing Kyle's protruding stomach. Before we know what's going on, Ryan and Kyle start posing for as many crude, yet strangely humorous, photos that we can come up with. This one was my idea. Yup. The priest is gagging the boyscout with his own Neckerchief while pinching his nipple.

Rule #1

I know that I've had several posts lately that make some sort of mention of fecal matter, and I apologize if you are offended at the topic... but I can't help myself. I'm at work right now and I just came from the employee bathroom. There are only two stalls available for employees and I was in the preferred, king size, handicapped stall, minding my own business, doing my printable Sudoku puzzle.

I heard someone fumbling around outside the bathroom door, obviously trying to get their key in the lock as fast as possible. Whoever it was finally made it into the bathroom and immediately jumped into the stall next to mine. Luckily, the worst of my episode was over so I was pretty much just doing my puzzle. I listened to this guy breathing really heavily while trying to position the toilet seat cover. I could hear the really thin paper being unfolded and pulled back and forth for about 20 seconds. Then this guy sits down and I hear the messiest release that I may have ever heard. I hear him groaning and sighing for a few seconds and I take this opportunity to glance under the stall to see what kind of shoes this guy is wearing. I think most of us do this for some reason. I don't really know why I do it. Maybe because I think that messy episodes (like this guy ) should belong to sneakers with lawnmowing grass stains or something as opposed to polished penny loafers.

Sure enough I see a pair of beat up white sneakers and denim jeans. Yup. That's typical of the soundtrack I'd just heard. But then I heard something interesting. I heard the distinct sound of air freshener being sprayed. Now I know this type of thing is not unusual for women's bathrooms. From what I've heard, it is fairly common for girls stalls to have cans of air freshener. But not the boys room. I've never seen a can of air freshener in a stall in a boys bathroom before. Never. But I started glancing around my handicapped kingdom to see if I had a can of air freshener, as well. I didn't see one. Then this guy broke "bathroom code" Rule #1. He spoke to me. "You know it's bad when you have to bring your own can of air freshener in order to survive." I gave him an audible chuckle and immediately began wrapping up my own visit. I really didn't want to have a verbal exchange with this guy... especially in this environment.

I also wanted to hurry so we weren't washing our hands at the same time. Then there'd be some sort of obligation to speak to him. It wouldn't exist normally, but he'd already broken the verbal barrier by speaking to me so now I'd at least have to acknowledge him if we were standing next to each other at the sinks.

As I was quickly washing my hands, I couldn't help but wonder how this guy was able to sneak an entire can of air freshener into the bathroom. I say "sneak" because I can't imagine he'd walk casually through the building toward the bathroom with a can of air freshener tucked under his arm. It's the same reason I don't carry a newspaper in there with me. I don't want people seeing me and thinking "Well, he's gonna be in there for a while." I just want them to think I'm going number one.

That's why girls are so lucky. Even when you see feet under the stall wall, you can still think they might only be going pee. If you see a guy's feet under the stall door... you KNOW what they're doing.

PS I just created a "Twitter" account cause I thought it looked cool, but I don't know anyone else who has one and I'm not exactly sure how they work. Any advice?