I’m a decently fit guy. I’m 41, 6’0”, weigh in at about 180 lbs on a good day, 185 on a bad day (one where I haven’t, um, used the reading-a-magazine part of the bathroom for a few days). I can still bring myself to bike 200 miles, or run a marathon (I’ll post my review of the St. George Marathon later this week), or hike a mountain.

On the other hand, I’ve noticed that I have really poor judgment. Not poor judgment, as in, “hey, why not drive home from work high on ecstasy,” or “hey, 4 feet of fresh? Let’s center punch that couloir.” More like bad judgment, as in, “peanut butter cookies with chocolate chips? I guess I’ll eat 9.” Or “hey, we’re out to eat, I just had a 20oz Porterhouse steak, I might as well have two slices of cheesecake.” That sort of thing.

We recently spent New Year’s Eve with our kids at a friend’s condo in Park City. I made my signature party dish, chocolate popcorn, for the event. This dish involves popping 3 bags of microwave popcorn, making a batch of fudge large enough to baptize Charles Barkley, and pouring the fudge over the popcorn.

I ate ALL of the popcorn myself. During New Year’s Eve. And no, I was not impaired, except for my lust for chocolate popcorn. It’s the great mystery of Mormonism. Absolutely NO beer, but I’ll have a pint of heavy whipped cream, 4 cups of sugar, and 2 squares of unsweetened baking chocolate please.

Saturday, we had a bunch of family over for sledding on the back hill, and bought a couple boxes of Lofhouse frosted sugar cookies. You know how some cities have banned trans fat? Hasn’t happened here yet. Anyway, I got up 3 times during the night last night, and ate a cookie the size of my head each time, along with a glass of milk. The glass of milk, apart from washing down the cookie, ensures that I’ll have to get up again in 2 hours. When another cookie will be waiting for me.

My mom keeps a box full of M&Ms at her house. Whenever I visit, the first thing I do, after hugging my mom, is head straight to the box, and put two handfuls of M&Ms in my pocket. For later. And then eat a bunch right then.

I recently read that weight is 80 percent diet, and 20 percent exercise. I’ve spent my whole life operating on the inverse of that. I don’t really exercise, as such, but I move a lot. I bike a lot, I hike and ski a lot. I’ll even get on the occasional treadmill (ewwww).

If it’s true about this 80 percent diet thing, I’m going to have to re-think the whole fitness business. I’m not sure I can go on trying to stay fit. On the other hand, I’m not sure I’ll want to even go on living. Heaven is a place a lot like Willie Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. Without the Oompah Loompahs. Unless they’re made of chocolate too. Are they?

Score for My Eating Habits:

Yumminess—10

Healthiness—2

Truthiness—not really applicable, but I just so love this word

--dug

What I Like About the Cream

What I Don't Like about the Cream

Ronco: Customer service, may I help you?

 

Me: I sure hope so. I got bit by a vampire even though I was wearing your cream!

 

Ronco: I'm terribly sorry, sir. We've had some problems with a bad batch sent out of Memphis. Before I reimburse your money, I have to ask a few questions. Are you sure it was a vampire that bit you? It wasn't a bat?

 

Me: No, it was a vampire. I'm sure. He was wearing a black suit with an upturned collar and there was creepy organ music. He just left a couple minutes ago.

 

Ronco: Did you do anything to provoke the vampire?

 

Me: You mean besides applying anti-vampire cream?

 

Ronco: Sir, I know this is a difficult time for you, but let's try to get through this without sarcasm, m'kay?

 

Me: Sorry, I'm upset that my skin is turning pale and my eyes are all a-glow. I feel funny. Something is happening...

 

Ronco: OK, sir, if you send us your receipt and a proof-of-purchase seal, we'll refund your $19.95.

 

Me: I care not about ze money! I vant to see my reflection in the mirror! How do I fix zis?

Rating

As a writer, you want to provide your readers with a high-quality experience, don’t you? Yes, of course you do. So of course you use all the writing tools at your disposal: words, white space, capitalization, and—naturally—punctuation.

But, just as not all words are equally good (“defenestration” is a much better word than “tintinnabulation”), some punctuation marks are of higher quality than others. To help writers everywhere produce only the freshest, brightest, Nordstrom-quality text available (and to help said writers refrain from using cheap, second-hand punctuation), an evaluation of the relative merit of many frequently-encountered punctuation marks follows.

Period (.)

The simple dot that is the period belies the fact that this is the single most-common form of punctuation used today. The form of the period is as simple as it is elegant: a simple dot. The function of the period is understated, yet vital: it says, “This sentence is over.” With no additional frills, no unnecessary flourishes, the period does its job, quietly, unobtrusively, efficiently. This is the standard by which all other punctuation must be judged. Very Highly Recommended

Comma (,)

The comma is the period’s hard-drinking cousin. Certainly, you can see the family resemblance. But while the period is all self-contained respectability and clarity, the comma doesn’t seem to know what he (yes, he) is really all about. “I separate clauses in sentences,” says the comma. Fine. But he also acts as a separator of thoughts, an iterator of lists, or even a vague pause to maintain the rhythm of a sentence. And just look at the comma: it is clearly not doing anything so important as ending a sentence, yet it shows off a fancy little tail as if to proclaim its devil-may-care attitude and rebel status in the world of punctuation. To the comma, I say: “Shape up, grow up, and decide what you’re going to do with your life.” Not Recommended for Quality Literature, Suitable for Comic Books and Romance Novels Only

Colon (:)

The merry prankster of punctuation, the colon is always good for a laugh. First, it is named after part of your butt. That’s funny. Next, it is two periods, one on top of another, which would—on the face of it—seem to convey that the writer wishes to convey that the sentence is not only over, but that it is really over. But—and this really floors me—that is not what the colon means at all! Instead, this acrobatic pair of periods indicates that either a list follows, or that the next item follows from the previous item. Since the reader would no doubt have figured this out without the help of the colon, it is an entirely unnecessary form of punctuation. Which is itself a pretty clever joke. Well played, colon! Well played indeed! Recommended for When One Wants to be Hilarious

Semicolon (;)

The semicolon is intended to convey that two thoughts within a single sentence are closely enough related that they should not be separated by a period; instead, those thoughts are separated by what looks to be the horribly disfigured love-child of a period and a comma. As if the noble period would ever stoop to the level of having relations with the trashy, tawdry comma. Frankly, I’m offended by the very sight of the semicolon. And do you really think there are any thoughts that are so intertwined that they couldn’t be made separate sentences? No, I didn’t think so. Not Recommended Under Any Circumstances

Question Mark (?)

I have two minor quarrels with the function of the question mark. First: It indicates that the sentence just concluded is a question, which is all well and good. But really, if the reader hasn’t figured out that the sentence is a question by the time he (for all readers of questions are male) gets to the end of that sentence, can the writer defensibly say that the question is well-formed? Second: The shape of the question mark is overly ostentatious and contrived. Recommended, with a Caution for Rewrite

Exclamation Point (!)

This punctuation mark is great! It adds vitality and emphasis to your writing, which are highly desirable attributes! The form of the exclamation point goes hand in hand with its function; the period at the bottom indicating that it, too, ends a sentence, and the vertical slash conveying action. Highly Recommended! Use Liberally!!!

Ellipses (…)

The ellipses are fundamentally flawed. Consider: the simple period ends a sentence conclusively. Sequential periods, then, should end a sentence even more conclusively. Instead, the ellipsis doesn’t end a sentence at all, but instead shows a trailing off or missing thought. Why, dear reader, would that ever be desirable? It’s wishy-washy punctuation, and does not show proper respect to the period. Not Recommended for Lucid People

Em-dash(—)

The em-dash indicates a break in the thread of the sentence, and is usually used when the writer doesn’t know the actual correct punctuation mark to use. I have a recommendation to writers who use the em-dash: instead, just type “I’m stupid and don’t know the correct punctuation mark to use here” where you were going to put the em-dash. It’s more honest, and may well be the most accurate thing you write that day. Recommended for Buffoons and Charlatans

Parentheses(())

The parentheses were once a powerful tool to indicate a subtle, nested thought within another thought. The sweeping form of the mirrored marks couched the remark within the sentence, protecting it from all intruders. Sadly, those days are gone forever. The parentheses have been cheapened by emoticons. It is no longer possible to look at a parenthesis without turning your head sideways and trying to figure out what face the writer was trying to draw. Sadly, No Longer Recommended

Ampersand (&)

This isn’t even punctuation. It’s the word “and.” Or, more specifically, it’s the latin word “Et,” smooshed together. One has to wonder: what is this doing on the keyboard? Did keyboard designers think that we all use the word “and” so often it needed its own key? If so, where’s my “it” key? Or my “of” key? And don’t even get me started on the appearance of the ampersand. It’s beyond pretentious. It’s labyrinthine. Ampersand, give it up. You’re not fooling anybody. Recommended for Purging from Keyboards Everywhere

-Elden

However, we did no bathroom cleanup or maintenance at Novell. We had people that did that for us. Bathroom people. Facilities people. You could pee your name on the walls and not worry. You could drop a dozen French Dip sandwiches in each toilet and know that by the next morning the facilities elves would have magically made it all shiny and new again.

Those days are gone (but not forgotten).

In my little office here in downtown Salt Lake City, we have 25 people and 4 bathrooms (an excellent ratio), and one plunger (so far, more than sufficient, we rarely, if ever, require simultaneous plunging). Some of the bathrooms are recognized with a specific purpose. For example, one of the middle bathrooms (by the way, all the bathrooms are one-holes with locking doors), has a home-made “Women’s Restroom” sign on it. We’re all good people, and we all try to respect that. The bathroom in the back is generally regarded as where you go when you are either a) a man, or b) someone other than a man, but you’re about to drop a 1,000 kiloton bomb.

We’re not entirely uncivilized.

Anyway.

I think I mentioned, one plunger, no “facilities people.” Well, we do have a guy who comes in at night and generally cleans up. But I’m pretty sure it’s not on his list of job responsibilities to plunge. Actually, it’s almost certainly on his list of duties, but the difference between his to-do list and his “do” list is pretty vast. As in, Captain Kirk, the-vastness-of-space vast. And I must say, if I ever found out someone was leaving a bomb un-plunged overnight, that would reflect badly on the perpetrator in his or her next review. Or sooner.

Little aside here (as if there is any “here” here. We all know Derrida said there is no center. I know that, you know that, let’s just accept that and move on.): I am the designated plunger in my home. If I were to go to Vegas for the weekend, and in the five minutes after I left, my wife or one of my kids were to somehow make it so any household toilet wouldn’t flush (and even an 8 year old or a dainty 12 year old girl can drop a 1,000 kiloton bomb), believe me, rather than wield the plunger themselves, they would put Police Line Do Not Cross tape across the bathroom door, a towel across the bottom of the door, and wait for me to return. Why they do this, I do not know. Plunging is not so much an art as an activity. Anybody can do it. But not many do. Am I enabling here? I probably am.

So at work, where I’ve only worked for about 9 months, I am the designated plunger. You might think this task too menial for the General Manager, but no, I checked, and it’s on my list of duties (ha). People will actually come to my door, politely interrupt me, and demurely say “the women’s restroom is backed up again. But it wasn’t me.” The first part of that report varies, but the last part, the “but it wasn’t me” part, never varies. You could be 8, or you could be 78 years old, “but it wasn’t you.”

My first question is automatic, and also never varies: “Just paper, or is there debris?” Wouldn’t you want to know? That hasn’t happened here yet. Well, actually it happened yesterday, but that was the first time. It was clearly woman debris. Don’t ask me how I know. And of course I also want to know if the toilet is overflowing.

At home, there is always debris, somehow my kids can guarantee there will be debris, and not just small debris, more like zoo-cleanup type debris, and not from the marsupial area, but here at work, so far, knock on wood, it’s almost always just paper. Imagine my relief. Because, you can handle family debris. It’s not pretty, it’s not your first choice, but at least it’s family. It washes off. Stranger debris, no, stranger debris is indelible.

Out damn spot.

Actual Plunging

So I find the plunger, which almost always ends up back in the back room bathroom (I suspect stealth plunging is going on, but I can’t be certain, and besides, who would do that?), and tell everybody to Stand Back! Then I go into the abused bathroom and close the door.

The thing is, plunging is mostly grunt work. Debris or no debris, overflowing or no overflowing, you just stick the plunger once more into the breach dear friends, and work it like you just don’t care. Plunging works better if the head of the plunger is covered with water, so if the water level is low, you should flush it to get some water around the head, taking care not to create too much turbulence, cuz who needs that on your brand new Bruno Maglis? You keep working it in and out and flushing until the water and debris disappears.

Eh Bien Voila!

Of course, plunger-wise, you aren’t really done until no evidence of the incident remains on the plunger, no “clingies” allowed. So you keep flushing and rotating the plunger in the running water to remove the signs of debris or paper. You then stand the plunger in the corner (my wife usually spirits the plunger off to some discrete location, but I like it when I enter a bathroom and see a plunger, it gives me a sense of confidence, a “come-what-may” feeling), and go about your way, the good citizens of the home or office in your debt yet again.

The Actual Plunger

Let’s talk about the plunger for a minute. You could Google plungers, but you might get confused, as I did, when I started reading about an all-girl band in New York City. But forget that. Plungers have only changed in one significant way in my short lifetime: instead of a stick with a rubber half sphere at the end, the half sphere now usually has a flange that narrows the opening a bit, and seems to be designed to fit down into the trap of the toilet.

My plunger at work has this flange. My plunger at home also has this flange. I’m not even sure you can buy plungers without this new flange anymore. I agree that the flange appears to serve a useful purpose, which is to create some kind of pressure differential between the trap and the rest of the bowl. I also think, based on very scientific research consisting of asking someone, that the plunger flange keeps the plunger from doing the dreaded “sudden-inversion” during plunging (the fixing of which involves touching the plunger en medias rex, a fate akin to diving into an outhouse toilet). But since all plungers appear to have the flange, well, it’s like the difference between a Kalashnikov and an M-16: you might have preferences, but really, in the end, someone gets shit-canned. So whatever.

Anyway, I get the plunger head down in there, I work it like I just don’t care, and flush. Rinse and repeat until water and/or debris disappears. On the rubber head of my plunger at work, it says, in raised rubber letters, “Helping Hand” with a little raised rubber hand logo. Very friendly, I like it. On the other side it says Force Out. Which sounds very, well, forceful. I wonder what the plungers in the military look like. Maybe on those plungers it could say “Force 10 From Navarone!”

My plunger has a smooth wooden handle, with no splinters (not as useful for NYC cops, but I don’t live in NYC). I have yet to fail using this plunger. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever failed using any plunger. Maybe I should be reviewing myself here.

In short, my plunger is a 10 out of 11. Because really, nothing but the big amplifier goes to 11.

- dug