by TEJ | Mar 24, 2023 | Lifestyles humor
My wife complains we have way too much stuff. That’s so silly. She thinks that I should give away my boom box just because I haven’t turned it on since 2004. But what if cassette tapes make a comeback? Then what will I have to play my 1970’s Roy Orbison tapes on? Did she ever think about that?
For the past several years, my wife Michele and I have had a running debate about how much stuff to hold onto and whether or not to give away (or in some cases, throw away) some of the rarely used excess items lying around the house.
Michele has a long list of what she considers to be totally unnecessary items that are no longer being used, just taking up space, and should be given away. I’m cautiously optimistic to report that as of this writing, I am not one of the items on that list. But I suspect I’m on the bubble.
I totally agree with my wife that we have too much crap. It’s just that we can’t quite agree on whose crap needs to be jettisoned. For example, we have an entire freezer filled to the brim with frozen broccoli, Brussels sprouts, and cauliflower. I assure you, I will NEVER EVER eat any of these, so if it were my call, I would give all of these away to a needy broccoli-loving home.
But my wife, for reasons unfathomable to me, seems to be under the misguided notion that I’m the far guiltier party when it comes to holding onto things we don’t need. The example she often cites is the fact that I have taken up one full closet to stash memorabilia from my childhood. It consists of barely 25 boxes of papers, photos, art projects and other keepsakes dating back to first grade and continuing through graduate school. It includes important relics like a clay sculpture I made in first grade that looks like a rat but was supposed to be an elephant, my fourth grade social studies report on Uruguay, several high school term papers, and three boxes of letters from college ex-girlfriends.
My wife lamely brings up the minor detail that technically I have not opened up any of these boxes once in the past 30 years. That may be true, but I was planning on getting around to reviewing one box a month very soon – by which I mean whenever I have completely run out of ideas for other things to do in my life.
My wife rightly points out that I have literally dozens of shirts and pants filling up our bedroom closet that I haven’t worn in years (mainly because I can’t fit into any of them at the moment). But I’m planning on losing 40 pounds, and when I finally get down to my college weight, I’ll be so glad I held onto that lime green Nehru jacket and those lavender bell-bottom corduroy slacks for all these years.
This is a small sampling of my collection of novelty hats. I bought them to use in my VFTB YouTube channel videos. My wife points out that I never wear them after the video is done. But I say, you never know when you might need a Viking helmet or a Canadian Mountie hat. I want to be properly attired if the prime ministers of Norway or Canada ever stop by for a visit. It’s good to be prepared.
Anyone who knows me is aware of the fact that I’m seriously into sports of all kinds. The fact that I suck at most of them is beside the point. So, over the years, I’ve accumulated a large assortment of sporting equipment – some of which I actually have used. She pointed out that we never use our badminton set or our croquet set. “And why are you holding onto a second set of golf clubs?,” she rudely intoned the other day. “Because,” I reminded her, “what do I do if Barack Obama – who is a close personal friend of mine ever since we worked out together – came to visit and wanted to play golf?” You never know when you may need a backup set of clubs.
The list of items my wife wants me to give away is getting longer by the day. It includes such precious heirlooms as my Rock’em Sock’em Robots set which I got for Christmas in 4th grade (the red boxer still works). She also questions why I’m still holding onto my extensive assortment of 1980s movies on VHS – since we haven’t had a VHS player for years. But I will have you know I still have every Ace Ventura, Pet Detective movie Jim Carrey ever made.. And I’m sure you’d agree that my Director’s Cut VHS edition of Patrick Swayze’s cult classic Road House alone will be worth a small fortune someday.
For reasons I still don’t grok, my wife also feels there is no reason to keep my 1992 Casio keyboard. It’s true that I can’t remember the last time I played it. But now that I’m retired, I was planning on taking up piano again. I explained to my wife that it’s never too late to start a music career. I reminded her that Willie Nelson didn’t even take up singing until he was 58 years old. Imagine that! Okay, so technically that’s a lie, but my wife didn’t know that. And I needed this statistic to bolster my case to let me hold onto my Casio player.
This is CHOMPERS, my guard T-Rex that sits next to my desk in my office. For some insane reason I can’t fathom, my wife feels it’s ridiculous for a man my age to have a giant stuffed animal in my office. She says we should get rid of it. But I pointed out that if we gave away Chompers, how would I protect myself from deadly rhinoceros sneak attacks while I’m writing?
She keeps harping about all the items she feels we should get rid of. But the door swings both ways. There are several items she still clings onto, like her voluminous inventory of art supplies – not to mention her closet full of dresses, blouses and jewelry – none of which I have worn in years. But you don’t see me telling her to throw out her cherished possessions. Because I am a considerate spouse.
I’m willing to meet my wife halfway. I’m open to compromise. Heck, I long ago stopped complaining when she kept putting the toilet paper rolls on the wrong way (under instead of over). I no longer bring up the fact that she still doesn’t know how to properly load the dishwasher. So, don’t tell me I’m not willing to be reasonable and accommodating.
But there’s a line in the sand my wife had better not cross. If she thinks for one second I’m going to let her throw out my three-feet-long stuffed animal whale named Maybe Dick that I got for my birthday in second grade, then she’s in for an ugly fight. I’d no sooner part with Maybe Dick than I’d let go of my priceless collection of life-size Simpsons action figures. My daughters will thank me someday.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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by TEJ | Jan 20, 2023 | Lifestyles humor
This is my neighbor Rick. Rick is my friend. Why, might you ask? Is it because we share common interests? Heck if I know. I have no idea what his interests are. What I DO know is that Rick is very handy. Recently, he installed a new NEST thermostat for me that my daughter gave me for Christmas. What a great neighbor. I love Rick.
I don’t like to brag. But I’m a bit of a home improvement guru. Be it erecting a backyard fence or wallpapering the bedroom, I can do just about any project with minimal mistakes. And I only need one tool to do it all: my cell phone – which I’m very handy working with to call a contractor to complete these projects.
What I’m trying to say is – and this is something that will surprise nobody who has known me for at least five minutes – I have absolutely no Do-It-Yourselfer skills. NADA. Zilch! I blame this on my father, because, well, he passed away 43 years ago, so he’s not here to defend himself. My dad was a workaholic, usually coming home from the office well after nightfall and often working weekends. He never taught me how to unclog a plugged drain; or light the pilot light on the furnace; or change a flat tire. So, I never learned any of that stuff when I was young.
By the time I finished grad school and dove headlong into my career, I worked crazy hours like my dad. So, I had no time to do household maintenance projects – nor any burning desire to learn how. Fast forward forty years, and I’m now in my sixties and retired. I live in a semi-rural island community populated mostly with other retirees. Everybody here is frugal. All of these people know how to handle all sorts of home repairs and improvements. They’re all self-reliant. – a word nobody has ever once accused me of being when it comes to fixing anything around the house.
Everybody here is a DIY-er, a Do-It-Yourselfer. A week does not go by that I don’t hear one of my neighbors explain how they just finished installing a ceiling fan or renovating their kitchen. By themselves, of course. And it’s not just the men. All the women here know how to fix stuff. And half the men here have the skills to become a finalist on Top Chef. How do I compete with that? I may not be as talented in the kitchen as any of my neighbors, but I can microwave a mean Stouffers Spaghetti in Meat Sauce. (The key is to poke at least six holes in the plastic covering, but no more than eight.)
This is my neighbor Jim. I can’t stand Jim. What a jerk. Why do I say this? Because recently, Jim and his wife invited us over for a sumptuous home-cooked meal. Jim did all the cooking himself. And now my wife is asking me, “When will you start making me meals like Jim does for his wife?” Thanks a lot, Jim!
I don’t know how to cook, build, or fix anything. Heck, I consider it an achievement when I can reset the time on my Fitbit watch. And don’t ask me how to set up the new router for my computer. That’s why you have teenage children, isn’t it?
The closest I came to fixing something mechanical was when at the age of 14, I built a minibike and installed the lawnmower engine – all by myself. I was so proud of myself – until I pressed the accelerator. The bike immediately responded by going BACKWARDS. I had somehow installed the engine backwards. I was never able to make it fit onto the bike frame in the proper direction. Thus began a long, undistinguished career of calling others to fix things I was too incompetent to do by myself.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I sit on my couch all day watching football and eating ice cream – although, if you ask me, that sounds like a perfectly good way to spend an autumn Saturday afternoon. I know how to power wash my driveway and use my leaf blower to blow away the leaves (into my neighbor’s yard). A couple of years ago, I even planted over 200 tulips and daffodils – while my wife watched and pointed out how I was doing it all wrong.
One time I even erected a colorful 12-foot signpost in my front yard all by myself (and by “all by myself” I mean with the nominal assistance of a carpenter buddy who brought his power tools, a wheelbarrow, and cement, and who knew how to use a circular saw and explained the importance of measuring things).
Recently, a powerful windstorm knocked out all power in our neighborhood. Fortunately, we have a generator and an elaborate auxiliary power grid – which I paid to have an electrician install. I would have tried to install it myself, but I felt that paying a professional $750 was probably cheaper in the long run than the cost of having to rebuild our house after I would have no doubt accidentally burned it to the ground due to a series of egregious electrical wiring mistakes.
Anyway, the contractor walked me through a 16-step process of flipping circuit switches, plugging in the generator, opening up the propane tank, turning on the battery, adjusting the choke, etc. I wrote it all down in great detail, because I knew the chances of me remembering all these steps were about the same as the odds I’d be chosen to be the next Pope
Meet my neighbor Gail. Gail is a stay-at-home mom and a self-taught car mechanic. She figures she’s saved over $15,000 over the years in car maintenance bills by doing all of the work on her vehicles herself. Normally, I’d be inclined to despise her, of course. But in this photo Gail offered to change the oil and filter on my Hyundai. And she even brought over sugar cookies. So, I guess I’ll forgive her for being such a DIY-er.
So, the storm hit, our power went out, and I followed all 16 steps precisely as I had written them down. And to no one’s amazement, the generator would not start. I asked my neighbor Ron to help, because he’s much handier than I. He quickly figured out the problem, which was that I should not be allowed anywhere near complicated mechanical equipment. I apparently had two steps in the wrong sequence.
Ron figured it out and got the generator – and our power – going within minutes. I thanked him profusely – and made a note that the next time our power goes out to call Ron, so I won’t have to tackle this confusing task myself. I don’t want to toot my own horn, but I’m an excellent delegator.
Sure, at times I feel a little inadequate that my home improvement skills are roughly on par with those of my cat Zippy. And I sometimes get embarrassed about my lack of knowledge about how to do common household things like putting down tile flooring or installing a new bathroom sink or replacing the AA batteries on my TV remote. But that’s a small price to pay to have all that extra free time on my hands to watch the game… on the couch… with a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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by TEJ | May 30, 2022 | Lifestyles humor
It’s no secret that my wife and I are crazy about cats. We’ve fostered dozens of kittens and adult cats over the years. We currently belong to three (formerly) male cats who were all once fosters: Zippy, Buddy, and our newest family member, Monster. Some readers may even recall that Zippy once authored a tell-all book trashing me. But we settled out of court for an undisclosed amount.
We pet owners sure do love our furry companions. Many people, like my good friend and fellow humor writer Dorothy Rosby, even talk to them on a regular basis.
And sure, I talk to my cats too. Who doesn’t talk to their cat? (Unless they are one of those freakishly ugly hairless sphynx breeds – I just don’t trust them.)
When I talk to my cats, it’s always about important things, like whether my Seattle Seahawks should trade their quarterback Russell Wilson for a pair of first round draft picks or reminding them to make the bed after I get up in the morning or asking them if there’s anything good on TV. I can’t say with 100% certainty that they always understand what I’m saying, but they never ask clarifying questions, so I presume they’re tracking with me.
Cats are a lot smarter than most people think. One clever cat lover even wrote a book called Why Cats Paint. It was so successful that I plan to rip off his idea and pump out a series of similar books, including Why Cats Cook, Why Cats Bowl, and Why Cats Don’t Particularly Care About Particle Physics.
Some people wonder whether cats actually love us back. I can say with confidence that Zippy and Buddy love me. The verdict’s still out on Monster, ever since I recently put him in the laundry room for two days for peeing on the bed. He holds onto grudges.
I truly adore our cats, even though they almost never offer to help with the chores. That said, any time I put new sheets on the bed, Zippy is always eager to help – which he does by jumping up on the bed (right before I put down the fitted sheet) and lying there for hours under all the new warm sheets and blankets. Even when one of them misbehaves, I can’t stay mad at them. I even forgave Buddy the time he leapt up on my laptop keyboard and somehow instantly managed to delete a humor article I’d been laboring on for three hours but had failed to save. But did he ever apologize? Sadly, no.
I like to give our cats several nicknames. For example, I have periodically called Monster Pumpkin, Cuddles, Squawker, BumpelRumpinface, and most recently, The Evil One Who Must Be Destroyed. But they always seem to respond to my call, regardless what name I call them (so long as I come bearing treats).
I also like to tell jokes to my cats. But when it comes to humor, they are a tough audience. Whenever I read them portions of my latest column, they rarely chuckle or even smirk. Typically they just stare at me until they realize I don’t have any treats, then walk away – so, pretty much the same response I get from my wife.
Millions of cat owners routinely proclaim their affection for their furry friends by snuggling with them and telling them how much they love them. Like I said, I do that too. But I also sing to my cats – with original lyrics I make up. That said, I’ve never been able to come up with a song lyric that rhymes with “Monster.” I’m seriously considering changing his name to Ned or Brad, both of which are much easier to rhyme.
At left: Our tuxedo cat Buddy fitfully trying to sleep. Notice how stressed out he appears. My guess is he’s worried about when he’s going to be fed next. At right: Buddy after I just sang him a song I wrote about bunnies. See how totally Zen he is. Buddy finds my music very soothing.
My songs cover a wide variety of timely topics from “I can’t see my computer monitor with you sitting there” to “Would you like to go bungee jumping with me tomorrow” to “how’d you get so fat – did you eat your brother?” – all in perfect rhyme but far from perfect pitch. I’m pretty sure my wife enjoys when I break out in song for our cats because whenever I start up, she immediately goes to another room (no doubt for better acoustics).
Here is a song I just sang to Buddy, while he was curled up on my lap (sung to the show tune, Where is Love, from the movie Oliver):
Where-ere-ere-ere-ere is Bud?
Where-ere-ere-ere-ere is Bud?
Is he in a tree? Or the bottom of the sea
All covered up in mud?
Catchy, I agree. Or this one I recently composed for Zippy (sung to the tune of Hey, Paula by the singers Paul and Paula):
Hey, Hey, Zippy, I see you giving me a glance
Hey, Hey, Zippy, now you have jumped up on my pants
I wish you wouldn’t leave
All of your fur on my pant sleeve
Hey, Zippy, don’t make me ship you to France
I’m thinking of making an album called Pet Sounds (I sure hope nobody else has used that name yet). Oh sure, you may think I’m a bit quirky since I like to sing to my cats. I mostly croon Broadway show tunes, pop songs, and the occasional Gregorian chant. It’s not like I would ever sing them opera arias because that would be ridiculous.
Trust me, I’m not obsessed with our cats. I would never dress them up in silly costumes. And I would never install one of those giant cat walls that go around half the living room for them to climb up on – unless my wife changes her mind about that.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2022.
by TEJ | Jun 25, 2021 | Lifestyles humor
This is my first tell-all book. Spoiler alert: My owner, Tim Jones, is cruel. He never shares his ice cream or caviar with me. And he adopted a mangy cat off the streets without consulting me. He calls him Buddy, yeah, like we’d ever be friends.
In these contentious times, it seems like every week there’s another tell-all book promising to reveal shocking secrets of sordid behavior by a politician or celebrity. Being neither a politician nor celebrity, I was taken aback when my cat Zippy jumped on the bandwagon with his own muckraking treatise – all about me! Out of a warped sense of courtesy, his publisher, Random Mouse, sent me an advance copy. It’s full of lies and half-truths. I doubt Zippy penned it himself, given his lack of opposable thumbs. But then, I have noticed him often lurking by my keyboard.
At the risk of letting the cat out of the bag, here are a few startling passages from this disturbing publication. The full title is CATastrophe – An Unflinching Look at the Horrible Cruelty I’ve Had to Endure for Years at the Merciless Paws of My Evil, Heartless Owner, Tim Jones, Who Lives on Camano Island, WA and Who Could Stand to Lose 25 Pounds. If you ask me, that title is overly lengthy. He should have hired a better editor.
Page 13: “I didn’t choose the name ZIPPY. Like most everything else in my life, it was foisted upon me without consultation or consideration of my feline feelings. Why not a dignified moniker such as Buttons or Tigger? But Zippy? What was he thinking? I asked my owner, Tim Jones (if that’s even his real name) why he chose it. Acting like he doesn’t understand Catspeak, he merely gave me a goofy blank stare and patted my belly. I hate it when he does that. I keep telling him to scratch my ears or chin. But no, he always lunges for my ticklish underside. So insidious…”
Page 88: “Then there’s his annoying laser pointer. He’ll move it left and right, up and down, zig-zagging across the room, until I get nauseous. He thinks it’s hilarious to point the red light at a wall and watch me pounce on it. Splat! I’ve repeatedly asked him to cut it out, but he doesn’t utter a word (apparently the cat’s got his tongue). He just grins, like a Cheshire cat, getting some sadistic pleasure from torturing me…”
Page 147: “Every day, I stare out at the birds hovering around the feeder. There they are, not six feet from me, separated only by a pane of glass. So plump and tasty, especially the chickadees. But Tim refuses me even a feather for a snack. I’ve been drooling for just one tweet – er, treat – for 35 years (ok, 35 CAT years, but that’s over 1,825 human days!)…”
Here I am tying my owner’s shoes, using the standard Cat’s Paw knot. Tim gets all hissy when I bite the laces to pull them tight. He just doesn’t appreciate fine craftsmanship.
Page 260: “One time when my captor opened the front door, I made a bolt for it. Other cats might be afraid they’d get eaten by a coyote, but not me. I’m no scaredy-cat. Oh to explore the amazing outdoors! My escape would have worked, too, except for one thing: He shook a bag of kitty treats. I am powerless to resist that sound. I froze, turned, and zipped back inside. Hey, maybe that’s where he got my name? I forfeited my momentary chance at independence for two measly morsels of Friskies bits. In my defense, they were catnip-flavored, so I really had no choice…”
Page 355: “I don’t understand why my owner never shares his human food. Several times a day, I watch him stuff his pie hole with English Muffins, burgers, ice cream, Cliff bars, you name it. Whatever he wants. But does he offer any of these goodies to man’s best friend? (Sorry dogs, take a number.) Heck no! It’s always the same entrée: dry cat food pellets. What am I, a rabbit? Oh sure, once in awhile he offers me a can of moist food, something called “chicken” or “mariner’s catch”, but I’m pretty sure they’re not serving any of this crap at Benihana’s. Would it kill him to serve me filet mignon once in a while? (Preferably medium rare – I hate when they over-cook it)…”
Page 499: ”Every few months, Tim does something deeply perverse. He brings home a litter of foster kittens. He claims it’s his mission to socialize them with humans so they will make happier pets for some other family. But I know he has a Machiavellian plan to keep one. Thank God for his wife, who nips that in the derriere. Anyway, while these newborns are nosing in on my turf, guess how much time Tim spends with me. That’s right; Zilch, Nada – except when, without warning, he hauls me into their room and drops me in the middle of the meowing horde. Next thing you know, five mini furballs are trying to nurse off me. Did I mention I’m a male? But they don’t care. I plan to sue Jones for pain and suffering from all their nasty teeth marks…”
Page 572: “My owner sometimes forgets that, as a cat, I’m supposed to live life on my terms. I’m related to lions and tigers, so it’s stressful living all my days on couches, beds and windowsills when I’m destined to be free. And then there are all the absurd rules he imposes like, “Don’t eat the flowers” and “Stay out of the washing machine“ and “Stop watching On Demand. That costs me money.” He’s crushing my soul…”
Here I am with my baby “brother”, Buddy. If I’ve told him once, I’ve told him a thousand times: the salad bowl is mine.
Page 691: “For reasons I can’t fathom, he gets a real bug up his butt whenever I pee on the bed. What’s his problem? It’s so demeaning to squat in a pile of sand in the laundry room. I’m pretty sure the ‘wight to wizz wherever I want’ is one of the freedoms specified in the Constitution. I feel so persecuted…”
I’m only about a third of the way through, and apparently it gets worse. I haven’t gotten to the part where he accuses me of profound emotional cruelty for neutering him – or for the time I dressed him up like a ladybug for Halloween. He’s never forgiven me for that.
Zippy never once interviewed me for my take on his lurid accusations. I considered filing a defamation lawsuit, but my attorney said collecting damages from a house cat could be a long shot. So, I just might keep Zippy out of our bedroom for the next two weeks. That will teach him a lesson.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2021.
by TEJ | Jan 9, 2021 | Lifestyles humor
Look at all these happy, successful, well-adjusted people. Makes you feel a tad inadequate, right? But you have a basement apartment and live alone with Chester, your parakeet. I’m certain none of them has that. So who’s the real winner in this story?
In our technological world, nonstop streams of tweets, Instagram photos, Facebook posts, and texts bombard us by the minute – unless you’re Amish. As a result, we non-Amish folk are exposed to an onslaught of messages reminding us we’re not good enough, not attractive enough, or not successful enough – or all of the above, like my shiftless, irresponsible nephew Axel, who wins the trifecta. Alas, we live in an increasingly superficial world.
Most people can’t live up to the impossible standards imposed by TV and online ads with perfectly proportioned people telling us how to become slimmer, earn more money, and save up to 15% on our car insurance.
My advice: STOP COMPARING YOURSELF TO OTHER PEOPLE. You are as good as anybody else in this world (except, of course, George Clooney or Scarlett Johansson). It would also be foolhardy to compare yourself to an incredible success story like me. You might be surprised to learn that I’m a nationally sought-after expert on how to lead a happy, successful and emotionally fulfilling life. (That’s because it is a lie. I do tend to lie a lot, but in my defense, I only do this when I’m conscious.) I have written countless books on leading an effective life, including such titles as YOU’RE GROUNDED FOR LIFE – Misguided Parenting Strategies That Sounded Good at the Time, and …, um, well, okay, just that one book, actually.
Let’s look at some common areas where people yearn to keep up with, and surpass, the Joneses – or at least this Jones.
Wealth: Why is everybody obsessed with being rich? Experts like me agree that lasting happiness can’t be measured by one’s net worth. It’s about being present each day and enjoying the small pleasures in life, like a walk in a park, reading a good book, or taking a month-long Mediterranean cruise in a first-class cabin. Look at that ostentatious Maserati in your cavernous three-car garage. You’re not fooling anybody. That man toy isn’t going to bring you long-term joy. Let me take it off your hands, so you can plant a garden instead. There’s nothing more heavenly than plunging your hands into the rich earth (unless you consider driving a Maserati – that’s Heaven).
It is perfectly natural to envy people who seem to have it all. Take this couple. They are rich beyond your wildest dreams, own five houses, and spend their winters on Mykonos. Two weeks after this photo was taken, she caught him cheating and ran over him in her Bentley. He’s dead. She’s in prison. So, the story has a happy ending.
Career Success: I remember as a twenty-something always trying to impress my work colleagues. I was determined to claw my way over those co-workers to scale the corporate ladder of success. Then I became a dad and realized the true meaning of success: making sure my two toddler daughters didn’t claw their way over each other and accidentally kill their sibling.
So what if you never make it to VP, with a corner office on the 27th floor? Based on your 2.0 college GPA and your series of odd jobs arranged by your uncle, it’s amazing you landed that job at Dunkin’ Donuts. Don’t fret that you might be a disappointment to your parents – that’s a given. In my book you’re a superstar, buddy.
Physical Beauty: Stop what you’re doing and go look in the bathroom mirror. What do you see? No, I’m not talking about that zit that wasn’t there yesterday. Look at the face staring back at you. Look deep within those eyes. Even if you’re not technically “attractive” or you’re just “average looking” or even “mildly repulsive,” my point is that real beauty is on the inside.
The only people who care about your external appearance are members of the opposite sex, your own sex, potential employers, and anyone with a vowel in their name. Personally, I like you just the way you are – but I would suggest trimming your beard. You’re starting to look like a Duck Dynasty dude. And consider covering up that “I Love MY Mom” tattoo; a nice sentiment, but not a winner with the ladies.
Creative Talent: My wife is an annoyingly talented artist, having been commissioned to paint the official portraits of governors, symphony conductors, and Pentagon officials. Next to her, it would be easy for me to feel insecure about my own artistic capabilities. That’s because the most creative artwork I ever produced was a clay bear in first grade – but in hindsight it does kind of look a toaster. No wonder my teacher used it as a door stop.
Do these peoples’ chiseled bodies make you feel bad about your own physique? Don’t fret. They were born that way. So how can you feel better about your paunch? No clue. Nope, I got nothing.
Furthermore, I live on an island of exceptional people, Take Jack down the road who makes violins by hand. Or the O’Shea’s who built their own home using nothing but debris they found lying on the beach. Perhaps driftwood wasn’t the most sound choice of building materials, but you get my drift.
My point is that we all have our own creative gifts if we look hard enough. For example, scrunching up your laundered clothes rather than the traditional folding represents a free and uninhibited spirit. Or how about the innovative way you’ve let your dirty dishes stack up for the past three weeks. Very Jackson Pollock. And pungent.
Popularity: Everybody wants to be liked. It’s only human. I’ve been wanting my kids to like me since 2003. But sometimes we have to stop worrying about the opinion of others and ask ourselves, “Do I like myself?” In the end, isn’t that what really matters?
Who cares how many Facebook friends you have? (For the record, I have 5,857.) Or your number of Twitter followers (4,242). It doesn’t matter. This isn’t a competition (though good luck topping my numbers). I would rather have one close friend than 500 casual acquaintances – unless one of those acquaintances could introduce me to Scarlett Johansson, in which case, Adios, Amigo.
In the grand scheme of things, it comes down to this: Before you try to get others to love you, start by learning to love yourself. And if your life is such a mess that you simply can’t love yourself (I‘m looking at you, nephew Axel), don’t worry. Just get a dog. He’ll unconditionally love you more than your parents ever did.
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
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© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2021. Edited by Betsy Jones.
by TEJ | Oct 18, 2020 | Lifestyles humor
Every day it’s the same. I start out with optimistic plans of getting everything done and feeling good about my productivity. And every day ends with me asking the same question: What happened? How did everything go so so wildly off the rails?
When I was in my forties, I routinely worked 55-hour weeks (commuting an hour each way), taxied my kids to soccer practices and dance recitals, mowed the yard, paid the bills, and worked out five nights a week (some things are sacred). I knew exactly where my day had to go, and I made sure it went there. Missions accomplished.
But now, at 65, I feel my days slipping away. Not from some morbid fixation on death, or from my compromised knees. Rather, each day flies by and I’ve done squat. I don’t get it. I’m semi-retired, working maybe 15 hours a week. The commute to my downstairs home office averages 60 seconds – longer if there’s a pileup of cats on the stairwell. Our kids are grown and drive themselves to practices and parties. So, what’s my problem?
To help keep myself on track, I developed the following daily regimen.
6:30am: Rise, shine, shower, shave, brush teeth, dress.
7:00am: Chug protein kale shake (while holding nose).
7:30am: Power through email, deleting all junk emails requesting political campaign donations (average 298 per day). Pay bills, perhaps.
8:00am: Work. Stay focused to finish by noon. Max 15 minute break.
Noon: Join wife for quinoa and chicken. Try to eat it.
12:30pm: Intense workout on elliptical and weights to enhance 2-pack.
1:30pm: Get some fresh air on brisk two-mile walk. Try not to get lost this time.
2:30: Read a book to broaden mind, such as on Paleolithic artforms. TV verboten.
5:00: Cook healthy dinner of legumes, tilapia, salad. Try to feel full without dessert.
This is how I see my day beginning: working on my core, followed by 45 minutes on the elliptical, energizing me to work productively. The reality is that I’m lucky if I have energy to put on gym clothes before running out of steam and watching a rerun of The Office. At least I’m thinking about the office.
6:00pm: Feed cats, scoop litterbox. Tidy up house. Resist urge to shove laundry under bed.
7:00pm: Chill with cats, Buddy and Zippy. Watch intellectually stimulating film with Michele.
9:00pm: Check Facebook feed (only once daily!)
10:00pm: Brush teeth, floss, bedtime. Reflect on accomplishments of the day.
Care to guess how many times I’ve adhered to this schedule (in reality, not just in my dreams)? Yup! Right down there with the number of successful Titanic oceanic crossings. I don’t know why, but every single solitary day I deviate widely from this plan – through no fault of my own, I’m sure. To get to the bottom of this conundrum, I decided to log each minute of my day. Surely such a study would reveal who or what keeps derailing me.
Reality (bites):
6:30am: Hit snooze button. 6:30 is an ungodly time to get up. I can barely open one eye, let alone rise and shine. Roll over. Sleep another hour.
7:30am: Shuffle downstairs in PJs. Trip over cats. Forget to shave, shower, or brush teeth. Log onto computer to check email and Facebook feed. Congratulate Norman on his 75th birthday. (Personally, I thought he would have kicked the bucket years ago.)
8:30am: Scarf bowl of Apple Jacks. Must be healthy cuz’ it has the word “apple” right in the name. Turn on CNN for latest news. Something about President Trump’s plans to prosecute every Democratic governor and mayor for treason. IOW, another normal news day.
9:30am: Start workday (90 minutes behind schedule). Plan to make up time by punting laundry for yet another day.
9:35am: Come across YouTube video about a cat that has learned how to snowboard. Hilarious. Post it to Facebook and Instagram.
9:40am: Resume working.
9:50am: Receive SOS from neighbor to borrow pressure washer. Meet them at my garage. Engage in lively discussion about Trump’s plans to build another border wall – around the White House.
10:20am: Return to work.
10:55am: Consider shaving. Get distracted by unusual bird outside window. Ponder its species. Check bird book. Looks like a black-bellied plover or maybe a Pacific golden plover. While away 20 minutes researching the answer. Yeah, I knew it. Definitely a black-bellied plover.
11:25am: Back to work. Focus, Tim. Focus!
11:40am: Turn on Amazon Echo. “Alexa, play music by Elton John.” Internal debate over whether the Rolling Stones would be better background music for working.
11:55am: Observe how cute Zippy looks lying in that tiny box. Decide he needs pats because he’s been such a good boy. He hasn’t peed on the carpet by my desk all morning.
Noon: Lunch. Michele’s already eaten. I’m too tired to grill chicken. Looks like it’s another PB&J lunch day. There’s protein in Skippy peanut butter, right?
12:30am: Return to my desk. Stare at computer.
12:35pm: Receive Snapchat from daughter Rachel describing her next trip abroad. Daydream about Costa Rica.
1:05: Wonder if they have Cable in Costa Rica – which reminds me – did I pay the cable bill? Check bank account. Paid! Phew. Notice $50 charge for Wonder Waffles. What the heck?!
1:15pm: Take quick peek at Facebook. There’s a breaking WA Post story: Trump plans to purchase the Falklands and rename them the Trumplands. Think silently to self, “Perhaps he’ll move there when he loses.”
1:30pm: Take a brisk walk to mailbox. Exhausted, decide it’s time for a nap.
When in my 30’s and 40’s, I was full of energy and focused on powering efficiently through my daily To-Do list. Nowadays, it’s an accomplishment just to create a To-Do List, let alone do anything on it.
2:30pm: Contemplate working out – which would require getting dressed and tying sneakers. Too much of a hassle. Maybe tomorrow.
2:35pm: Think about work. Guilt paralyzes me.
3:00pm. Call it a day. Collapse onto couch and pat Buddy. He’s feeling ignored. Nod off again.
4:00pm: Snack time. Fleeting thoughts of fresh fruit. Opt for Cookie Dough ice cream instead. Begin diet tomorrow.
4:10pm: Gaze at book on coffee table about Paleolithic artforms. Reach for remote instead. Catch the latest breaking news story from CNN: Trump has decided to replace Mike Pence as his VP with the My Pillow Guy. Think to self, “I did NOT see that coming.”
6:10pm: Catch glimpse of clock and realize I’ve been glued to CNN for two hours. A recipe for stress. Time for a dinner of comfort food. Surprise Michele with a pepperoni & sausage pizza delivery. With a large Mountain Dew.
7:00pm: Get cozy on couch with Michele, Buddy and Zippy. “Watch” action thriller flick while texting buddy Steve about Seahawks game. Apologize to wife for not being fully present with her.
9:00pm: Time for bed. Wait! Did I feed the cats? Probably not. Guess that’ll have to wait till tomorrow.
Where did my day go?
That’s the view from the bleachers. Perhaps I’m off base.
PS: If you enjoyed this week’s post, let me know by posting a comment, giving it a Like or sharing this post on Facebook.
Subscribe to my new View from the Bleachers YouTube Channel and request notifications to see my latest videos.
© Tim Jones, View from the Bleachers 2020. Edited by Betsy Jones.
