Different Things to Different People, That's What.

Hi,

It's no secret that my Mom's side of the family, the Schmalleys, are legion.  No, I'm not saying that they are demons that should be cast into swine and drown in the sea (but, if the shoe fits).  What I mean is that there are a ton of them.  Grandpa and Grandma Schmalley had ten kids(!) and each of those kids had 7.5 kids of their own.  And so on, and so on.  

If you do the math correctly, you will discover that I have 74 first cousins on that side of my family. If you do the math incorrectly, there is no telling what you'll come up with, but unless you are really bad at math it will probably be close to 75.  This figure does not count the 120 first cousins once removed, or any of their spouses (although it's possible that some of them are married to each other).  Like I said, LEGION.

So, when I was a kid we'd go to family reunions where every family would have to write words to the song "Happiness Is."  You may not be familiar with this song.  I only know it from the Schmalley reunions--it's not on youtube or I would post it.  Come to think of it, I actually have no idea if my memory of the song is in the least bit accurate.  Don't worry, accuracy has never been a strong point of this particular blog.

Anyway, each of the ten families would have to rewrite the words to the song in order to explain what happiness was to each of that family's family members.  For example, and I'm just making this up:

"To Tommy, it's a punch in the gut; to Susan, it's a slap on the butt;
to Mikey, it's the booze that he drank, to Devin it's a night in the 'tank'."

So on and so forth.

Then, at some point during the reunion, we'd have to get up and sing the song as a family in front of all the other miserable families who also had to do it too...as well.  (Grandma made us do it; she was never tried for her crimes).

Each of us systematically had our personalities boiled down to one item of happiness that had to rhyme with one of our sibling's items of happiness.  And, of course, the family reunion would slog on and on, the same melody ringing through the air.  I don't know what Hell is like, but I may know the soundtrack.

Here is a version that my family may have sung at one point:

"Happiness is (cha, cha, cha), happiness is (cha, cha, cha)
different things to different people, that's what happiness is.
For Schmoland, it is fresh mustache wax, for Schmargaret it's the phrase 'battle axe,'
For Schmim Scrubs, the color maroon, for Schmobert it's the act of  'buffoon.'
For Schmathie Jaffra spatulas and cards, for Schmobin it's a night with the Bard,
For Schmon it is metal-band hair, for Schmrian it's his pink underwear (he'll show it to you ... or else).
For Schmotty it's a ball of some kind, for Skicky (one of my actual nicknames) it's his tiny behind.
For Schmana it's the end of our song..."

You'd awkwardly end when you were out of children to name.

I had never noticed until this moment that my parents has given us all S names.

Here's to happiness.





Here is a TED talk on happiness.  I like it. Enjoy.

Naming Names

A few months ago, I wrote a post making fun of Newt Gingrich's name. My little hit piece seemed to move public opinion because within a couple of weeks of my post, Newt was no longer a serious contender for the Presidency. In the spirit of fairness, there are some other names I would like to make fun of now.

Mitt Romney
Mitt Romney was born during the seventh inning stretch of a Detroit Tigers game. His father used his new-born son to catch a home-run ball in the top of the eighth. Some guy in the stands said, "Nice mitt you got there!" George Romney looked at his boy and said, "Yes, yes he is a nice mitt." Even now when Mitt Romney catches a base ball he'll follow it up with a ba ba.

George Romney was an impressive guy who found great success by overcoming difficult obstacles. One of his obstacles was dyslexia. He actually wanted to name Mitt, Tim, but he filled out the birth certificate request incorrectly. If Mitt's name had stayed Tim, and if "Tim Romney" were to be elected to the office of President, he would be only the second person named Tim to hold that office. The first was Abraham Lincoln.

Mitt Romney's first name, Mitt, is actually an acronym. It stands for Massachusetts Institute of Technology Technology, and is pronounced "em eye tee tee?" The answer to that is, "yes you are. Very tee tee in deed."


Barack Obama
Barack Obama's first name is Kenyan for "place where I store my lamb sounds" -- a rack for your bahs, if you will.

 You may not have known this, but Obama's last name is a contraction of "Oh, Alabama," which is what people say when they are chiding the state and/or the band.

Fans of Oprah and the University of Alabama call themselves OBamas.


Joe Biden
Biden is actually a contraction of a longer two-word last name: Bin Laden. Biden's great grandfather removed the n(space)La. Can you imagine if Joe's Great Grandpa had kept that name, the campaign posters in 2008 and 2012 would have read, "Obama Bin Laden."

Barney Frank
Massachusetts representative, Barney Frank, has considered changing his name to Frank Barney.


Tony Blair
The former British PM changed his name to Tony from Natalie Jo Tuti Blair.


Chris Christie
The New Jersey governor's full name is Christie Chris Chris Christie. On a related note, Kris Kristofferson's middle name is Tofferson.


Benjamin Netanyahu
The Prime Minister of Israel came into prominence in the 1990's when everyone called the internet the "net," and conducted web searches on Yahoo.


Tim Pawlenty The former governor of Minnesota and would-be third POTUS named Tim (after Abe and Mitt), is part of the wealthy candy-making family behind the 1930's treat Good 'n Pawlenty. His last name is derived from the family trait of lending a hand, and also of their referring to hands as paws. Another famous Tim, Tim Duncan, was given his last name when it was discovered what he would do for a living--make doughnuts.


The End.

My goodness!

It has been a good, long time since I've posted.

Well...um...yep.

Later, I guess.

Shirt Stories

I just got an email from Nordstrom entitled, "Easy Ways to Wear Colorful Shirts."  I feel out of the loop, because I did not know that wearing colorful shirts was difficult.  I assume I'm not the only one who is just now been made aware of this.


To help spread the word, I have created the following list:


10 reasons that colorful shirts can be hard to wear.


1. Sleeves and neck holes.


2. Buttons.  Buttons can be difficult to fasten, especially in the dark and without a mirror.  If just one button gets misaligned--and you don't notice--you end up looking like a drunk, or a 3-year-old, or a 3-year-old drunk.


3. Shirts and Skins.  The historical animosity between shirts and skins is well documented.  Have you ever heard of the phrase "Shirts and Skins" used in a non-competitive setting?  Well, have you?  Answer the question!  That's right, you haven't.  The following exchange never happens, Guy 1: "Hey, your shirts look good!" Guy 2: "Thanks! So do your skins!"  Ok, maybe there was a Tailor/Trapper shop in the 1800's where that exchange happened, but not recently.


4. Desire to go shirtless. Hot days can make certain people want to take off their shirts.  These people, the shirtless, are almost always male, and they suffer from something.  We do not know what that something is.  Science doesn't care to get close enough to find out.  Needless to say, it is hard to wear shirts when your shirt is off.


5. Lack of Service.  Without a shirt, coupled with shoes, there is no service.  There is never any mention of pants on those warning signs.


6.  Lousy T-shirts.  Sometimes your parents go to a nice vacation spot and all you get is this lousy T-shirt.


7. Shakespearean angst.  To tuck, or not to tuck: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The breeze and airflow of out-hanging tails,

Or to take arms to slide said tail into trouser,

And by opposing end them? 

SIDE NOTE: You may have noticed that up to now this list is less about colorful shirts and more about shirts in general.  This is because all shirts have color as a major component.  Allow me to illustrate:


A guy walks into a, um, bar, I guess, wearing a white shirt and someone asks, "what color is your shirt?"  His reply, "it is white."  He does not reply, "it has no color."  So, if even white shirts--the least colorful of shirts--have a definable color, then all shirts must be defined as having color.  Ergo, all shirts are colorful (i.e., full of color).  However, I would now like to list 3 difficulties of wearing shirts of specific color.

8. Red shirts attract bulls.

9. Camouflage shirts are hardly seen at all, and when they are seen they make you look like an idiot (unless they are part of a uniform, in which case you look awesome.  USA, USA!). 

10. I am a Winter, and there are certain colors that I just can't wear.  No matter how easy Nordstrom makes it for me.

Sock Hop

Hi.

By most standards I am not a picky man when it comes to day-to-day things.  Especially things that are provided to me without much effort on my part. I am almost always good with whatever I'm given.  Happy even.  I don't complain about service at restaurants, or the way food tastes (unless I am the one responsible for preparing it).  I'll admit I have lots of weaknesses, for example, I am not prefect at spelling, or at controlling my damn language (oops), or at getting regular haircuts, but when it comes to NOT being picky--I'm not bad (I don't swear all that often either).

I probably need to rethink my personal picky-ness stance.

Last week I realized that I needed some new dress socks.   Again, I'm not picky, the only thing that I need from my dress socks is (a) for them to be black and (b) for there to be lots of them in the same style so that I don't have to worry about losing one from time to time.  To accommodate these two criteria I usually will buy a large package that contains lots of socks.

I often buy my socks at Target.

This time was no exception.  I entered the men's clothing area and sought out socks.  There side by side hung two seemingly identical packages of socks.  One was 50 cents cheaper than the other.

The following thoughts ran through my mind:

     -A penny saved is a penny earned.
     -A penny in the hand is better than two in the bush.
     -A penny in time saves nine.
     -A spoonful of pennies helps the medicine go down.
     -See the cheaper socks, pick them up, and all the day you'll have good luck.
     -... six cows ... seven cows ... EIGHT COWS!

Then, the music to Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas started

"Have yourself a fifty cents for Christmas.  Make the yuletide gay.  From now on our troubles will be fifty cents awaaaay ...  Here we are fifty cents and stuff, fifty cents and stuff like that.  Fifty cents will be dear to us, will be near to us, and splat.  Through the years fifty cents will be together, if fifty cents allows.  Hang that fifty cents upon your highest bough!  And fifty cents, and fifty cents together...Noooooow."

I'll admit that the rhythms don't exactly fit, but as noted above I'm not picky.  And, I didn't realize until reading through my impromptu Christmas carol that I may have called for the lynching of a rapper (I do not endorse hanging Fiddy Cent on the highest bough).
   
Back to the two packs of socks: what could I do?  I took the cheaper pack.

As is often the case when I buy socks, I had a need to wear the newly purchased socks almost immediately upon purchasing them.  So I drove from the Target parking lot to the location of the class that I was scheduled to teach that evening.  That is where I tore into the package of socks.  Nine pairs total.  I selected a pair and slid the first one onto my left foot.

"Hmm," I thought.  "This doesn't quite fit like I expected it to."  I examined the package.  "These are men's socks, right?" I asked myself hoping for confirmation.

They were men's socks.  Black, dress, ankle-length men's socks.

By saving 50 cents, I had cost myself 1/4 of a sock--times 18.  Do the math (0.25*18=4.5).

For two shiny quarters, I traded the equivalent of 4.5 sock units AND the ability to cross my legs at church.

Oh well, I'm not picky.

Is it Drafty In Here?

Hey, people who read this blog:

I finished the first draft of my novel!  It's done!

It's called Convergence and it took me two-and-a-half years to write.  It is 315 pages and 74,000 words long, which I'm told is regular novel size.

It is about a man who at one moment is sitting at work, in his cubicle, day dreaming, and then suddenly is standing on a grassy knoll on his Grandfather's farm in Scotland.  Only problem is that he doesn't have any Grandfathers who own farms in Scotland.  Wait.  Yes he does.  At least, now he does.

The story is about this man trying to figure out what has happened and how to get home.  Spoiler alert: everyone is dead all along (just kidding--maybe).

I got the idea in the summer of 2009 as I sat in my cubicle daydreaming about what my life would have been like had my great, great Grandfather not immigrated to Utah with the Mormon pioneers in 1861, but instead had stayed in Scotland.

If I were assigning a genre to the story it would be GENEALOGICAL THRILLER (kidding again, sort of).

Really, I tried to take the story seriously, but also tried to give the characters good senses of humor.  So I'd say it's an adult contemporary comedy.

I am not sure what to do with it now.   Any suggestions?

Dad

Hello.  My Dad would have turned 82 years old on February 8 of this year.  So, I suppose a happy birthday is in order.   Happy Birthday, Dad.

He died in 2003--just after Christmas.  I remember the last time I saw him before the stroke, he was waving good bye to me from the passenger seat of the car as he and Mom backed down the driveway, headed to meet Grandma Schmalley in some small southern Schmutah town.

That day had been a fun day.  He had been in remarkably good spirits--in hindsight I wonder if he knew that something was going to happen.  It was almost like he understood that the chronic pain he had been dealing with was nearly at an end or something.

He and I spent about an hour in the shop he'd built in the backyard of our familial home--the home that he had built using recycled railroad houses.   He contracted to tear down the railroad houses, then he cleaned up and re-used the materials to build our house.  He did almost all of the building work on the house himself--and even now, in many ways, that house is a physical representation of him--it is missing his signature mustache, but still.

He was particularly funny that day.  Silly even.   Jokes and smiles came easily and often.   I remember him sitting at the head of the table looking at me and Buffy, his wife, our six-month-old son Ike.  He loved us.

Eight years later, it's hard to believe he's gone.  In most ways I have dealt with it and moved on, but sometimes I miss him, and other times I wish I missed him more often.

Anyway, I assume my Dad is currently working on a mansion--probably built from old railroad mansions that he tore down and recycled.  I hope (the kind of religious hope that focuses on Christ's ability to save) to see him again one day and get reacquainted.

Until then,  Happy Birthday, Dad.