The Java Cloud

Albert Einstein once said, “If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.” On that note, I would like someone at Oracle to explain Java to me. And, I would also like someone at Java to explain Oracle to me.

About once a week, my computer alerts me to the fact that my Java desperately needs to be upgraded. Apparently, Java is made by Oracle. Oracle is a computer software company, I think, although I have never been truly sure what they do. All I really know is they have an office complex near my house, with signs at the street that say Oracle. I assume they are rather successful, since the place is pretty big, and the signs at the street are really nice, and their founder bought Hawaii last year.

Java is something they make, or made, or do, I think. They are vague on that subject. When they notify me that my Java is out of date, they say this: “There is a Java update available. Java provides safe and secure access to the world of amazing Java content.”

Great, so if I install Java, or update my existing Java, I can look at Java safely, in a secure manner.

Then they give me even more reason to update. “From business solutions to helpful utilities and entertainment, Java makes your internet experience come to life.”

OK, now we’re getting somewhere. My internet experience will come to life. So Java is involved in the internet somehow, with business, entertainment, and utilities. Internet-based business and entertainment utilities, perhaps.

Finally they explain it. “3 Billion Devices Run Java. Computers, Printers, Routers, Cell Phones, Blackberry, Kindle, Parking Meters, Public Transportation Passes, ATMs, Credit Cards, Home Security Systems, Cable Boxes, TVs...”

OK, we are finally there. Lots of other stuff besides my computer uses Java. Parking meters, for instance. And my credit card. And my TV. Loads and loads of things are benefiting from this safe and helpful entertaining business utility experience, made possible by all this amazing Java content.

Thanks, Ora-java-cle, you’ve made it perfectly clear why I need whatever it is that you are doing to my computer. Actually, I’m being sarcastic. It’s not clear at all. It’s actually perfectly cloudy. That’s another thing I don’t understand, by the way. The cloud.

I think at this point all my computer-based activities and data are in a cloud of some kind. Much like Java, I keep hearing about it, but I have no idea what it is. Everybody has a cloud these days. I’m not sure if they are all separate clouds or one big one. I would imagine they are separate, since Apple has a cloud, and I’m sure they don’t use the same one as everybody else. Theirs would have to be special, since it needs to be called the iCloud, and has to be perfectly puffy and white. Everyone else’s is probably gray and costs half as much. Who knows?

What I do know is that whoever came up with the term “cloud,” and decided to run with it, needs a lesson in marketing. “Carbonite keeps what's important to you safe in the cloud.” When was the last time you thought to yourself, “I need to keep this item safe and secure, free from harm and theft. I think I’ll store it in a cloud.”

Never? Thought so.

The only good thing associated with clouds is rain, and rain is only considered good in certain situations. Crops, yes. Torrential downpours and flooding, no. Rain has never been considered good for computers and phones, and the concept of “raining down” is not very attractive when it comes to your data. You don’t want your bank statements and the pictures of your family raining down out of the cloud all over Eastern Europe. Not good. Also, clouds are made of vapor. Vapor is another thing that you rarely want to associate with things that you wish to retrieve someday.

“How’s the outlook, Bob?”

“Great! The future looks really cloudy.”

“Super! Can I get that sales report from you?”

“Absolutely. It got vaporized.”

Whatever it is and however it works, we need a new, more reassuring name than the cloud. How about, “the vault?”

“Carbonite keeps what's important to you safe in the vault.” Now that’s more like it.

I’m not sure if my Java updates are coming from the cloud or not, but I do know they seem to be coming more frequently these days. I think I might know why, too. With every Java update lately, there is a pop-up screen with the “next” button, and the screen has a check box with "Install the Ask Toolbar and make Ask my default search provider." The check box is small, innocuous, and conveniently already checked for me.

Hmmm…

Could it be that the cloud has delivered this Java-rific update to me simply so that Oracle can try to trick me into using their internet search tool? It’s tough to tell, because Oracle was kind enough to sum up why I need this latest update by telling me this: “By installing Java, you will be able to experience the power of Java, brought to you by Oracle.”

Hmmm…

Back to Einstein’s quote, “If you can’t explain it simply, you don’t understand it well enough.” Now, I’m not naïve enough to think that Oracle doesn’t understand what their own products do, so I have to conclude that old Albert left out an important second option. If you decline to explain it simply, even though you can, you’re probably trying to hide something.

I’m starting to think these Java updates with their cloudy explanations are just an elaborate ruse to get me to use Ask.com. That begs the next question: Does Oracle own Ask.com or is Ask a separate company that paid Oracle to push their service on me?

Good question. I think I’ll Google it.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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The QWERTY Conspiracy

I am really mad at someone, or maybe a lot of people. I just wish I knew who they were, so I could yell at them. You see, I can’t type. Up until yesterday, I thought that was largely my own fault. Up until yesterday I took full ownership of the fact that I avoided high school typing class like the plague. At the time, I think I would have rather cut a few fingers off in shop class than have sat through one hour of typing, and ironically, the way I type, missing a few digits would not slow me down at all.

As I write this, I am using the index fingers on both hands, along with the middle finger on my right hand and occasionally, the ring finger on my left hand. My thumbs operate the space bar, and that’s it. Six fingers out of ten make up my typing tools. I look like E.T. phoning home on the Speak and Spell. Since I don’t have proper typing form, I have to look at the keyboard instead of the screen while I type. I did not see this entence being written.

Now, since I am a writer and an author, you may be wondering to yourself, what’s the matter with you? Believe me, I have been wondering the same thing for years! I actually type pretty fast using my caveman style, but yesterday I figured that I’d better finally bite the bullet and teach myself to type correctly. I was curious how fast I currently type with my head-down, six-finger style, so I timed myself. I cruise at 50-60 words per minute, with occasional bursts of up to 3,000 words per minute when I get into sentences like, “I am at an inn.”

I was pretty impressed with myself until I looked up average typing speeds. I am definitely not dragging the world-wide average down, but I was shocked to read about how Stella Pajunas banged out 216 words per minute on a typewriter in 1946. That’s impressive. Then I learned about Barbara Blackburn, and how she could hold steady for hours at 150 words per minute, with a top speed of 212. That was also impressive. Then I learned that Barbara didn’t use a standard QWERTY keyboard. She used a Dvorak Simplified Keyboard.

Excuse me? A what?

That is when I started to get mad. The QWERTY keyboard layout has always seemed a little off to me, but I just figured that it was laid out in some optimal manner for true typists that my small brain couldn’t understand because I don’t type correctly. That could not be further from the truth! It turns out the keyboard layout was designed strictly from a mechanical point of view, to keep the first typewriters from jamming. If you are under 40 years old, you will just have to take my word for it. The first typewriters had long “hammers” with the letters on the ends of them, and when you pressed the key, the hammer had to swing up and out and hit the paper. I know, crazy, right! OMG, how did people even live back then?

Are you kidding me, typewriter manufacturers? And are you even more kidding me, first word processer manufacturers? There was a better keyboard and you guys never adopted it? Now I’m trying to learn how to type correctly, and I am burdened by the knowledge that this infernal keyboard layout has absolutely nothing to do with typing efficiency or ease? Now I’m really mad! Why did I just have to hit the “shift” key and the “1” key to make an exclamation point? Why do I have to hit “shift” to make a question mark? There it is again! And again. Why would either of these frequently used punctuations get second billing to a number and a slash?!?

And why is my right pinky finger wasting away over here resting on the colon key? I use a colon about twice a year. I use a semicolon never. And why are the vowels spread all over the keyboard like a shotgun blast? What are F,G,J, and K doing in the home row? Look at a Scrabble board, people. Those are high value letters[shift][1]

And speaking of brackets, how is it that the normal (parentheses) are “shift” keys that live over the “9” and the “0” in the infernal top row, but the ridiculous [brackets] and {whatever these are called} that nobody ever uses end up being main keys?

The Dvorak Simplified Keyboard is genius. At least, it’s way more genius than this now confounding QWERTY mess. The home row of keys on the Dvorak is AOEUIDHTNS. Imagine that! Being able to type the word “the” without having to lift a finger. I’d call that genius. Why wasn’t this immediately adopted the day after IBM came out with their first electric typewriter? Or at the very least, when the first word processor came along???? Sure, it might have been painful for a week or two for anyone who could already fly on the QWERTY, but let’s be serious; they would have learned the Dvorak quicker than anyone. If you can master this stupendously incomprehensible key layout, you can learn anything. You could be a classical guitar player, a rocket scientist, or a genetic physicist, if that’s even a thing. If you can type 100 words per minute on a keyboard that has F and J as your home keys, you have no limits.

I really do want to finally learn how to type, but now I’m conflicted. I think maybe I want to hold off, and instead, launch a nationwide campaign to adopt the Dvorak keyboard. If it catches on, I could save myself a ton of time and headache.

Maybe I’ll roll the metric system into the campaign as well. Its time is finally coming, too. I can feel it!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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545 People

If the United States government is not going to do their job, then neither am I. First, we were going to go off a fiscal cliff. That drop-dead date came and went, and I’m not sure if we went off or not. Everyone stopped talking about it as soon as “sequestration” was mentioned. Whether or not we’re falling off a cliff, we’re also sequestered now, whatever that means. What I do know is that they were supposed to get a budget passed by a certain deadline, and they chose not to. I was supposed to have a column posted at a certain time, but instead, following the government’s lead, I chose not to. Instead I decided to just use someone else’s column. If they don’t have to do their job, then neither do I.

In keeping with my new governmental work ethic, I thought it would be appropriate if my low-effort column had a government theme, so I am posting a column that every person in America should be required to read before stepping into a voting booth for the first time. (Don’t worry, it’s short and really good.)

The below piece of simple genius is commonly (and mistakenly) called “Charley Reese’s Last Column.” Charley Reese did in fact write it, but it was not his last column. He refers to it as “The Frankenstein Piece,” because of how many times it has been copied, brought back to life and added onto. It has probably been re-printed and re-posted thousands of times. It’s that good.

As near as I can tell after my exhaustive two-minute internet search on Snopes.com, this is by and large the exact column written by Charley Reese way back in 1985, however the specific names of politicians and places have been removed by someone else along the way  to make it timeless, without changing the point at all.

I think the main reason that this piece is so timeless, is that it’s written from a plain old citizen’s point of view, with party politics left out. I also think that the fact that it is timeless, still holding true to this very day, some 28 years after it was written, means we are totally screwed. Enjoy.

545 People

Politicians are the only people in the world who create problems and then campaign against them.

Have you ever wondered, if both the Democrats and the Republicans are against deficits, WHY do we have deficits?

Have you ever wondered, if all the politicians are against inflation and high taxes, WHY do we have inflation and high taxes?

You and I don't propose a federal budget. The President does.

You and I don't have the Constitutional authority to vote on appropriations. The House of Representatives does.

You and I don't write the tax code, Congress does.

You and I don't set fiscal policy, Congress does.

You and I don't control monetary policy, the Federal Reserve Bank does.

One hundred senators, 435 congressmen, one President, and nine Supreme Court justices equates to 545 human beings out of the 300 million who are directly, legally, morally, and individually responsible for the domestic problems that plague this country.

I excluded the members of the Federal Reserve Board because that problem was created by the Congress. In 1913, Congress delegated its Constitutional duty to provide a sound currency to a federally chartered, but private, central bank.

I excluded all the special interests and lobbyists for a sound reason. They have no legal authority. They have no ability to coerce a senator, a congressman, or a President to do one cotton-picking thing. I don't care if they offer a politician $1 million dollars in cash. The politician has the power to accept or reject it. No matter what the lobbyist promises, it is the legislator's responsibility to determine how he votes.

Those 545 human beings spend much of their energy convincing you that what they did is not their fault. They cooperate in this common con regardless of party.

What separates a politician from a normal human being is an excessive amount of gall. No normal human being would have the gall of a Speaker, who stands up and criticizes the President for creating deficits. The President can only propose a budget. He cannot force the Congress to accept it.

The Constitution, which is the supreme law of the land, gives sole responsibility to the House of Representatives for originating and approving appropriations and taxes. Who is the speaker of the House? He is the leader of the majority party. He and fellow House members, not the President, can approve any budget they want. If the President vetoes it, they can pass it over his veto if they agree to.

It seems inconceivable to me that a nation of 300 million cannot replace 545 people who stand convicted -- by present facts -- of incompetence and irresponsibility. I can't think of a single domestic problem that is not traceable directly to those 545 people. When you fully grasp the plain truth that 545 people exercise the power of the federal government, then it must follow that what exists is what they want to exist.

If the tax code is unfair, it's because they want it unfair.

If the budget is in the red, it's because they want it in the red.

If the Army & Marines are in a foreign country it's because they want them in a foreign country.

If they do not receive social security but are on an elite retirement plan not available to the people, it's because they want it that way.

There are no insoluble government problems.

Do not let these 545 people shift the blame to bureaucrats, whom they hire and whose jobs they can abolish; to lobbyists, whose gifts and advice they can reject; to regulators, to whom they give the power to regulate and from whom they can take this power. Above all, do not let them con you into the belief that there exists disembodied mystical forces like "the economy," "inflation," or "politics" that prevent them from doing what they take an oath to do.

Those 545 people, and they alone, are responsible.

They, and they alone, have the power.

They, and they alone, should be held accountable by the people who are their bosses - Provided they have the gumption to manage their own employees.

Charlie Reese is amazed that some people find this column so eye-opening, because he says that it’s just Civics 101. Unfortunately, he’s right about that. It was all true before he wrote it, and it’s all true today, almost three decades later. Nothing has changed.

I guess we’re fresh out of gumption around here. See what I mean about being screwed? We get the government we deserve, plain and simple. Save this column and make sure your kids read it over and over when they are old enough, and make them send it to twenty of their friends, like a chain letter. If we all do that, maybe their generation will be the first in a long time to finally understand who has the power and who works for whom.

As good as Charley’s column is, please don’t fret about the direction this column is taking. We’ll be back to our regularly scheduled humor format and content next week. Unlike the 545 people in Washington, D.C., I have a low tolerance for shirking my duties.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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Also visit Marc’s Amazon.com Author Page  for all his books. Enjoy!

Throwing Money Away

The other day I was at Sports Authority picking up a baseball duffle bag for Son Number Three. They have a no-frills $20 version that has a long pocket for your bats, and a main pocket for your glove and helmet. I made sure the shoulder strap fit me comfortably, since he is five years old, so inevitably, if I want the bag to make it all the way from the car to the field, I will end up carrying it myself. It went over my shoulder just fine. Sold!

I went to check out, and the girl scanned the barcode on the bag. Beep went the computer, and she read the screen, then looked up at me and asked, “Would you like to buy a protection plan for this item? If anything happens to it in the next two years, we will replace it for free. It’s only six dollars.”

I looked at the screen in front of me. $19.99

I looked at her, to make sure she wasn’t kidding. She wasn’t.

I asked, “What if I lose it? Will you replace it, and all of its contents, including my cell phone and wallet?”

“No, the protection plan doesn’t cover loss, or other items. Just damage.”

Hmm… Let me think about this for a minute. You want me to insure a $20 nylon bag for a third of its value against the off chance that something might happen to it that you wouldn’t already cover in your standard returns policy? Good one.

“No, thanks,” I politely declined.

I left the store shaking my head. Could there be a worse use for my money? As it turns out, there is something worse. Something much worse, and I didn’t have to wait too long to find out what it was.

That night, cleaning up after dinner, I pulled the trash can out from under the kitchen sink and stopped dead in my tracks. There, sitting right on top of the refuse, was eleven dollars. A five and six ones.

“What the… Why is there money in the trash can!?!” I inquired rather loudly, holding up the sticky bills, my gaze fixed upon the likely culprit, Son Number Three.

My wife gasped, “Oh my gosh, no. That was me. I did that last night. Whoops.”

“Huh!?!”

“I had a lot going on!” she explained.

“Huh!?! You had a lot going on? So, you threw money away… literally? Do I need to keep digging? Is there more? Should I go paw through the outside trash bin?”

“No, of course not,” she answered, slightly indignantly. “That was the only time.”

“How do you know!?!” I asked, exasperated, and marveling at the fact that she thought there was any room for indignation on the part of someone who was just found to have thrown money in the trash can.

I stood there in shock. A whole new world had opened up. I had never even dreamed it was possible to actually throw money away. I mean, literally throw it away, until now. A chill shot through me. What if we were rich? I never fully understand where all the money goes, but now a new scenario was possible. What if we could be rich, but my wife keeps throwing money away, keeping us in a perpetual state of “not even close to rich.”

After I got through shuddering at that thought, and regained some amount of composure, I asked the next obvious question.

“Are you pregnant?”

“What? Of course not!”

“I’m just asking, because of all the times I found the remote control in the refrigerator.”

“That only happened once!”

(Once per week, maybe.)

“I promise, this was a one-time thing. I just got very busy. Number Two owed me money for duct tape.” (The boy goes through a tremendous amount of duct tape. So much so, that we stopped supporting his habit.) “I got the money out of his piggy bank, and I was throwing something else away right after that.”

OK. I understand the mechanics of the accident, but that still doesn’t explain why you didn’t know that it happened. I mean, I have been incredibly busy. So busy that my head was spinning, in fact, and I still never came within a mile of putting U.S. currency in the trash can, let alone leaving it there.

My wife always makes fun of me for being a terrible multi-tasker, and she is right. Forget about two things at once. Anyone who can do one and a half things at the same time is a better multi-tasker than me. But I think she needs to cool it on the criticism now. No matter what you tell me, I am going to seriously doubt your ability to focus on multiple tasks after I find out you literally throw money in the trash.

This has been a fairly traumatic event for me, psychologically. It’s one thing when I come home and find out you bought an extended warranty for the couch. It’s quite another when I find out that throwing money in the trash is not only a possibility, but it has happened. I’m a wreck. It’s always in the back of my mind. I now stop and look into every trash can in the house when I pass by. I can’t even bring myself to look in the shredder.

Trash day is going to be interesting.

“Can you dump it in slowly? I want to watch. You know, just in case we’re really rich and I don’t know it.”

“Get the hell off my garbage truck!”

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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Observing a Deficiency

The other day, I stared at my wife as she walked into the room.

Hmm… I think something is different… did her neck get longer? No, it’s her hair.  Maybe... Yes, it’s her hair. I think it’s shorter… and possibly blonder.

Uh-oh, she saw me staring at her and now she’s smirking like she knows I see something different, but can’t figure it out… I’d better act fast.

“You did something with your hair,” I mumble. She laughs. “It looks GREAT,” I exclaim, trying to recover.

“It wasn’t today,” she says. “It was two days ago.”

Dammit!

Apparently she had cut about four inches off it, and it was at least three to four shades lighter. (As if I understand the blond shading scale!)

I am the most unobservant person I know. I would be a terrible cop. Actually, I think I would be great at high speed chases, and tackling bad guys, and Taser-ing people, but if the perp got away, my sergeant would probably ask me, “What did he look like?”

“Uh, you know. He was a dude. You know, kinda about this height, sorta thinnish.”

“A dude?”

“Yeah. He was white and had darkish hair. Or maybe he was Mexican. He was either Mexican, or a really tan white guy. Or he could have been Asian.”

“You talked with him for five minutes before he ran, right?”

“Yeah. You know, come to think of it, he kinda looked like a tanner version of my buddy John.”

“OK… Can you describe John?”

“Um, you know. He’s a dude. You know, kinda about this height, sorta thinnish… He was wearing a blue jacket. Or maybe dark grayish. It might not have been a jacket, actually. It might have been a long sleeve shirt…”

I expect that would be about the point where my police career would end.

I think I was just born without the part of the brain responsible for remembering what things look like. And it goes beyond hairstyles and bad guys. You could rearrange all the furniture in my house and I wouldn’t notice until I tried to sit where the chair used to be and hit the floor. And it works for adding and removing familiar things as well. If my wife hangs a new picture on the wall, or removes one that has been there for three years, my brain reacts the same way to that. A month later I will have a vague notion that something is different about that spot on the wall, but I won’t be able to put my finger on it. When she adds things, I have a little bit of an advantage, but when she removes things, I’m almost hopeless. My brain has no stored imagery of what it used to look like at all.

If I came home and my house was painted an entirely different color, I would probably just have a strange notion that something was off, but not what it was. If I did notice that it was a different color, that would be the only thing that I could tell you. It’s different. There is no way I would be able to tell you what color it was before.

I saw a good friend of ours at a gas station a few month ago. I was driving a company car, but it happened to be the exact same make and model as my own car, just gray instead of blue. The first thing she asked me was, “Did you get a new car?” I was amazed by that. She obviously got all of the part of the brain that I am deficient in, because I would be very hard-pressed to tell you what make and model car any of my friends drive, let alone what color they are. They are stored in my head in general categories; Jenna: SUV, Mark: pickup, Bill: small sedan, Jaime: toaster-looking car, etc. As long as they show up in the same class of vehicle, my brain will register no difference at all. The color doesn’t even register with me. I’m not color-blind (although, my wife might argue that point based on some of my clothing choices), I’m just color-impaired.

I think whatever brainpower is responsible for the high level of information gathering and storage required to remember what things look like – the part that I obviously lack -- was re-routed to other functions. I remember events, and text, and speech. I can tell you exactly what someone said years ago, and usually with the same inflection. I remember the lyrics to almost every song I have ever heard, and I know movie lines forward and backward. I am the official keeper of long-ago vacation memories, if someone has a question about what we did or what was said. I just have no idea what color the outside of my house is. Same thing with my wife's hair. I see her every day, and I sleep next to her every night, but if she changes her hair I might notice that it is different, but I would not be able to tell you what it looked like before.

And don’t even get me started on clothes. I am barely aware of what the clothes I own look like. How am I expected to keep track of anyone else’s? Luckily, my wife has learned to live with my deficiencies, for which I am grateful. She just laughs at me when I ask if the jacket that she’s had for six months is new.

She doesn’t laugh when I tell her exactly what she said two years ago, though. I don’t think she likes that very much.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

Check out The Smidge Page on Facebook. We like you, now like us, dammit!

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Get your copy today for only $0.99!
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Valentine's Day, Part II

This is a public service announcement. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow. Men, you only have a few hours left before all the cards are sold out and all the flowers are gone. You can read this later – Get moving!

Valentine’s Day is a confounding “holiday.” The number of people around the world who actually enjoy Valentine’s Day is very, very small. Most women will probably tell you that they enjoy the day, but they’re lying. They’re only saying that because they don’t want to be seen as “anti-romance.” Truth be told, Valentine’s Day is very stressful for most people, men or women.

Let’s try to figure out who really likes Valentine’s Day. No man in the history of the world has ever liked it, so take out roughly half the population of the earth. Sure, it’s a day dedicated to romance, so if a guy plays his cards (and flowers) right, he might get rewarded for his efforts. However, this is a day where he is expected to be romantic, no matter what. If he happens to forget and go about his business as usual, he will be in deep trouble. Birthdays and anniversaries are one thing, but Valentine’s Day is the one day of the year where every guy in the world can simultaneously get into a special, life-long, still bringing it up 25 years later kind of trouble, just for doing the same thing we did the day before. By the mere act of being yourself, you can be branded for life as an uncaring idiot, if you happen to forget the 14^th of February. Who needs that?

By my (incredibly limited) experience, cards and flowers have a much more positive impact on her emotions (and on your love life) if they are given when she is not expecting them. A specific day of the year when they are mandatory?  Far too much pressure. And speaking of pressure, it is entirely one-sided. There has never been a man in the history of the world who’s has had his feelings hurt when his wife or girlfriend didn’t get him a card on Valentine’s Day. The onus is all on the men. Heaven forbid you screw it up, boys. If you do, Valentine’s Night will be pretty lonely. It’ll just be you and your onus.

As I said at the beginning, no man has ever liked Valentine’s Day, but that doesn’t mean they all dislike it. Single men who are not dating have no particular feelings towards it one way or the other. They could care less about it. Single women who are not dating, however, hate Valentine’s Day. This is due to the fact that men and women are polar opposites when it comes to feelings about anything other than food and shelter being good things. Valentine’s Day for the single female is a myriad of emotions, all of them probably serving some sort of anthropological function, but none of them that you want to get anywhere within 40 feet of. Most of these emotions will be doused with wine, which can either have a suppressive effect, much like throwing a bucket of gasoline on a single match, or in most cases, an accelerant effect, much like throwing a bucket of gasoline on a campfire. Either way, it is best to observe the 40-foot perimeter.

Valentine’s Day for the single male means a shorter wait at the pizza place.

For women who are dating or married, Valentine’s Day is stressful. Not as stressful as it is for their men, but some amount of the man’s stress is transferred to the woman. That’s because the women know that we won’t get it right, no matter how hard we try, so they spend the weeks before Valentine’s Day worrying about what we’ll get wrong. Will he screw it completely up like I think he will, or will he surprise me and get it almost right? Never mind perfect. That ain’t happening.

Women who are dating someone casually worry that their significant other will go overboard and try too hard, making Valentine’s Day awkward instead if nice. Women who are dating someone seriously worry about the marriage proposal. If she feels that the proposal is imminent or overdue, she will worry that he won’t ask her to marry him. If she feels like it isn’t proposal time just yet, she will worry that he will ask.

In my estimation, women who are already engaged to be married are the only ones who truly enjoy a stress-free Valentine’s Day. If a lady’s fiancé has a track record of forgetting Valentine’s Day, she probably wouldn’t be engaged to him in the first place, so there is much less of a chance that she’s worried he will forget. (Naïvely, she thinks he will always remember the day once they are married. Boy, is she wrong!) There is no proposal pressure or worry, since that already happened, and since both parties are in constant communication about romantic stuff like wedding plans, chances are the guy will have a pretty good idea of what to do for the gift. Jewelry, flowers, chocolates, just a simple card… He is about as locked in as he’s ever going to be on what she wants. He will never know for sure, however, because reading a woman’s mind is a lot like reading Sanskrit in the dark. You’re never going to get it exactly right.

So, of all the people currently on the planet, the only ones who enjoy a truly worry-free and relaxing Valentine’s Day are most of the engaged women, and a handful of female newlyweds.  That probably works out to be far less than one percent of the population.

This leads me to the question of why we still have Valentine’s Day in the first place.

I don’t buy the argument that it’s just a day created by the greeting card, flower, and chocolate industries. It goes deeper than that. We all feel like we have to participate, because the men don’t want to be seen as the Scrooge of February, and the women don’t want to be left out. Truth be told, everyone would be a lot happier and less stressed if the day just went away, but stopping Valentine’s Day is an all or nothing deal. If there is one single solitary guy left on the earth still buying flowers for his fiancé on the 14^th of February, the rest of us are going to hear about it.

Until those engaged guys can stand up and say no, we’re all going to have to keep going with it. Those engaged guys are weak. They are scared to screw anything up, and rightfully so. They don’t know what they’re getting into, and they know they don’t know. They are yes men, just trying to survive. They will never help us.

So, we’re stuck with it. Do your best, and hope for the best. That’s all we can do.

Now, if you will excuse me, I have to go see if they have any Valentine’s cards left at the gas station mini-mart. My wife loves those cards. I think.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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Sleep-peeing

There are probably a ton of helpful books on potty training kids. I’m just assuming this, because I haven’t read any of them. My wife may have read some of them, but I have a more wild west, seat-of-my-pants parenting style where I don’t seek out too much expert advice. It makes it more interesting that way.

Without having read or even seen any of the potty training manuals out there, I can assure you that not one of them has ever offered any helpful advice on sleep-peeing. Now, I’m not talking about peeing in the bed while sleeping. That can be handled with rubber sheets, some wipes, dry jammies, and a washing machine. I’m talking about the dreaded combination of sleepwalking and peeing.

Son Number One is the only one of our three boys that sleep-pees, but believe me, one is enough. My wife and I first noticed this unbecoming behavior a few years ago when he was six. After bedtime, we were downstairs and heard the very familiar – especially to guys – pee hitting the ground noise. I went to investigate and found Son Number One standing at the top of the stairs, adjusting his pajama pants. I asked him what he was doing, and he didn’t answer me. He just turned and walked back into his bedroom. Puzzled, I walked up the stairs and stepped in a puddle on the third stair from the top. This was our first experience with sleep-peeing, so we were a little skeptical and confused, but all the evidence pointed to the fact that our son had just gotten out of bed and peed down the stairs. When I went into their room to question him, he was under the covers, snoring.

Any doubts my wife and I may have had about what actually happened that night were answered a few weeks later when I heard the same noise while I was upstairs, and came out into the hallway to investigate. This time, he hadn’t even made it out of the room. He had simply opened the door, and was standing in the doorway, peeing into the hall. I walked over to him, straddled my legs wide and bent down to his eye level, six inches from his face, and asked, “Whatcha doin’ buddy?” while he peed onto the carpet between my legs. He never said a word. He just stared at me blankly, finished up, shook it off, tucked it back into his jammies, and got back in bed. Totally sleepwalking. Totally peeing on the carpet.

Over the last few years, since we have become aware of the issue, we have decided that Son Number One probably never actually fully wakes up to go pee, but he gets to the toilet 95% of the time, since the bathroom is right next to his bedroom, and he’s on familiar turf. Out the door, two right turns, through the door, toilet is on the right at the end of the bathroom by the tub. Whether or not he empties his bladder entirely into the toilet is another matter.

For a little while prior to this revelation about our son’s strange nighttime urination choices, I had suspected their toilet needed repairs. I kept finding puddles of what could only be pee on the floor around the base of the toilet in their bathroom. I assumed the wax ring under the toilet had gone bad, and the toilet was leaking. I overlooked the now obvious other possibility that one of them was peeing on or near the toilet instead of in the toilet.

Actually, the wet bathroom floor is not solely a nocturnal consciousness issue. Number One has pretty good aim with number one when he’s awake, but the other two boys are wild cards. Son Number Two is constantly in a hurry, and Son Number Three combines a lack of coordination with a propensity to go no-handed. I am trying to instill the belief in them that “on and around the toilet” is not the same as “in the toilet.” I don’t think I’m making any headway.

Since Son Number One is on familiar ground at home, the sleep-peeing usually occurs where it is supposed to, since the bathroom is always right where it’s supposed to be. We have to be on our toes when we travel, though.

“Sorry about our son peeing in your closet. Urine comes out of suede, right?”

Sleepwalking is a strange thing. His eyes are open, and he navigates around obstacles like he’s awake, only a little wobbly, like he’s been drinking beer or cough syrup. He appears to simply be sleepy, but in reality, his brain has only powered up the walk-around functions. The good decision making part of the brain is still out cold. His bladder is the only thing that triggers the events, so unfortunately, we don’t have any cute sleepwalking stories about him drawing a picture or rearranging the furniture. They all end in pee.

The key is the lack of conversation. If you see him out of bed and walking around and he won’t answer you when you say his name, you’d better start moving, because he’s about to pee in the kitchen pantry. The potty training manuals won’t be any help with this one, because there isn’t anything you can do to prevent it. You just have to hope he grows out of it, and resign yourself to the fact that you won’t own nice carpet until he leaves for college. That, and eliminate asparagus from his diet.

I have to go now. I just heard the bathroom door, but no toilet noises. It’s more of a hollow sound… I think he just peed in the tub.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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Real Estate Disclosures

I read an article this week about a California woman who moved to Pennsylvania with her two daughters to be closer to her family after her husband had died. She purchased a house, and a few weeks after they had moved in she found out from a neighbor that there had been a murder-suicide in her master bedroom the previous year. She claims that there is no way she would have bought the house having known that, and she is appealing to the state supreme court to get the sale rescinded and her money back, after both the regular court and the appeals court ruled against her.

Here’s the timeline:

February 2006 – Man shoots his wife and then himself in the home

October 2006 – Couple buys the tainted house, knowing about the deaths, for $450,000.

June 2007 – California lady buys the house from the couple, without the deaths being disclosed to her, for $610,000.

She and her lawyer, who are suing the sellers and their real estate agents, maintain that sellers should be required to disclose troubling events "at least for some period of time."

I am sure, given her situation, that she would not have purchased the house if she had known the gory details of its recent past. It is an unfortunate situation for her, but I’m going to have to side with the two court opinions on this one. The logical side of me can’t make an exception in any case, no matter how troubling the event may be. If "troubling events" need to be disclosed, where does that end. How troubling is “troubling,” and how long is “some period of time?”

“Troubling” is completely subjective. I have friends who would hold a four-day candlelight vigil to mourn the loss of a goldfish, and I have other friends who would buy the house and volunteer to help clean up the bodies if it meant a lower purchase price. Pennsylvania may be holding firm, but I live in California, the land of regulations. What if I want to sell my house?

Since I’ve owned it, no one has died in the house, so I might be in the clear, but how far will California take it. I mean, I’ve had relatives die while I owned the house, and I was in the house when I found out, and it was very troubling for me. Does that count?

Our three-year-old son broke his leg in this house. Do we need to disclose that? I can assure you, it was a very troubling event, both for him and his mom!

What if no one died, but 37 family pets met their demise on the property? Still noteworthy? What if no person or animal ever died in the house, but it was used for a nefarious purpose, like slave trafficking, or drug dealing, or headquarters for the Russian mob’s door-to-door candy and magazine subscription sales?

Where will it end once it starts? “The buyer of this real property, commonly known as 123 Main Street, located on Lot 34-A of the Peterson Tract of the Sunshine Estates Subdivision, as shown on Placer County plat map number 882, shall be hereby officially notified that on or about the date of 3 November, 1986, one William “Billy” Johnson, aged eight years old at the time, had his feelings severely hurt in or near the living room.”

Believe me, in California, the slope on that argument is not that slippery. My natural skepticism combined with my logical mind leads me to believe there is more to this story. If she doesn’t like the house any more, she should sell it. One of my favorite old sayings when trying to get to the bottom of a convoluted mess is “follow the money.” That is helpful advice in most mysteries, including this one. Let’s look again at the timeline of the sales:

October 2006 – House sells to couple for $450,000

June 2007 – Couple re-sells house to lady from California for $610,000

So, in the span of eight months the house gained $160,000 in value? I don’t know anything about the Pennsylvania real estate market, but I know that gains of $20,000 per month in value are the stuff of magical dot com stocks, not real estate. I do know a little about the California real estate market, and $610,000 for the relatively modest house I saw pictured in the article seems high even by our inflated west coast standards. The first sale price of $450,000 even seems high.

Again, I’m sure she wouldn’t have bought the house had she known about its creepy history, but let’s be serious. She moved from California, land of overpriced housing, and blindly paid California prices for a Pennsylvania house. Two weeks later, she found out about the murders. My guess is, at that same time, she also found out about the last purchase price. Like I said, if you don’t like it, sell it. And if you can’t sell it for what you paid for it two weeks later, you paid too much.

I like old sayings. I always figured if a saying wasn’t useful or worth its weight, it wouldn’t be an old saying. One of my other favorite old sayings is, “buyer beware.” It is not practical to operate under the rule that the seller of anything is responsible for how the buyer will feel about their purchase. Especially things with a price tag as high as a house.

You should not be finding out about the murders or the home’s actual value two weeks after you buy it. You should be finding out two weeks BEFORE you buy it. Or in her case, before you don’t buy it.

The internet exists everywhere. Even in Pennsylvania. Use it!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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School Holidays

It has become obvious to me that the teacher’s union in this country is even more powerful than I thought. It didn’t occur to me until Monday, which was Martin Luther King Day. I realized Sunday night that the kids didn’t have school on Monday. By realized, of course I mean that my wife told me. Martin Luther King Day is one of those holidays like Columbus Day or Abe Lincoln’s birthday. The only people who take the day off are the schools, the post office, and the government. The rest of us have to work. That got me thinking about school holidays, and how many of them there are, and then it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Ever since I left school and entered the work force, I have wondered about summer vacation. I obviously enjoyed it when I was a student, but now that I’m on the other side of the fence I have questioned why it exists. Why can’t students and teachers work all year just like the rest of us? I never took my thinking on the subject any farther than that until Monday. On Monday I hit upon the real question. The question is not why we have summer vacation. The real question is, if we’re going to have a vacation at all, why is it in the summer? I mean, look at the calendar!

In January we have Martin Luther King Day, but even before that, we had the end of Christmas break. They didn’t start back to school until the second week in January.

In February we have Ground Hog Day, Lincoln’s Birthday, Mardi Gras, Valentine’s Day, and Washington’s Birthday. Most of those are not school holidays, but they might as well be for all the actual school work getting done, what with all the in-class celebrations going on. They scoot Abe and George’s birthdays around to “observe” them on a convenient Friday/Monday combination to create a four day mini holiday called President’s Day Weekend. Did you miss that last year? That’s because you were at work. With only 28 days in the first place, February is a write-off.

In March we have Easter break, now commonly known as Spring Break. There’s a week gone, plus the recent addition of Easter Monday becoming a school holiday. Add in Daylight Savings Time Day and St. Patrick’s Day and you’ve got a lot of clock lessons, leprechaun traps and colored eggs to take the place of math and English.

April has April Fools’ Day, Earth Day, and Administrative Professionals’ Day. While the other two might not take up much class time, Earth Day promises to take up a week. (Come to think of it, April also used to have a day called “Secretary’s Day.” I wonder what happened to that one? Oh, well, never mind.)

In May we have Cinco de Mayo, Mother’s Day, Armed Forces Day, and Memorial Day. Mother’s Day is a big detractor from book learnin’, and Cinco de Mayo burns a day drawing Mexican flags. Memorial Day is an actual holiday that is conveniently always on a Monday. That one doesn’t count, because everyone gets it. (Pipe down, retail and restaurant workers, you can have Flag Day off. Maybe.)

Speaking of Flag Day, that’s in June, along with Father’s Day. Two more days of no homework to grade. Then comes summer and no one is in school. The sum total of holidays in the summer break months of June, July, and August is one: The Fourth of July. That’s it.

School starts back up in late August or early September, just in time to take a day off for Labor Day, the only holiday in September. (Actually, my calendar also lists “Grandparents’ Day” on September 8^th, but let’s face it, every day is Grandparents’ Day. They’re retired. My kids’ grandparents are so retired, none of them ever know what day of the week it is!)

Late September and early October is serious buckle down time, until Columbus Day rolls around; another teacher and mailman-only holiday. Then there’s Halloween, which kills a minimum of two full days of schoolwork with costume contests and candy trading.

Halloween marks the beginning of the “holiday season.” November begins, and we might as well not have school at all. Veterans’ Day is observed on a Monday for another three day weekend, and the rest of November is spent drawing pictures of pilgrims, Indians, and turkeys. They are out of school for the last week of the month for Thanksgiving break and National Shopping Friday. Back to school for a few days in December to play some secret Santa and draw snowmen, then off on Christmas break until the middle of January.

On top of the holidays and breaks there are always a few “staff development” days when the kids stay home, and keep in mind, we live in a part of California that doesn’t see snow more than once every ten years. Add in winter snow days for the folks in the upper two-thirds of the country, and it gets even more ludicrous.

So if you look at the calendar in terms of national holidays and weather, and your goal was to have kids get the absolute most out of the school year, where would you put your three-month break? You would naturally start it at Thanksgiving and come back at the end of February. Actually, if your goal was to maximize the school year, you wouldn’t have a three-month break. You would simply have school all year.

Now, this whole summer break business came about in the first place due to farming. When you lived on a farm, and you were the farm labor, you worked in the summer. No sense keeping the school open if no one will be there to drool on the desks. I think we can safely say that the days of desperately needing our children to sow, cultivate, and pick crops are behind us. So why do we still have summer break at all?

The answer must be the teacher’s union. It’s the only thing that makes sense. Since teachers don’t get paid nearly enough, they must supplement their income by picking crops in the summer, and the powerful teacher’s union has kept the summer break in place to allow them to do so. That must be it.

Although, that still doesn’t explain all the other breaks in the school year. Hmmm.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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The Athletic Cup

Last year when Son Number One moved up out of T-ball into the big leagues, one of the new requirements was a cup. All boys playing in the league were required to wear an athletic cup, to protect all the boys’ boys. Never mind that at seven years old there isn’t much to protect. Rules are rules. As near as I could tell, the cups did three things. They made all the kids walk funny, they made all of them constantly adjust their crotches on the field, and they made it very difficult to strip down in a hurry to pee. As far as if they protected anything, I’m not really sure.

When I was playing little league we were only required to wear a cup if we were playing catcher. The proximity to the fast-moving baseball, either from the pitcher or the bat, combined with the rather exposed position that the catcher’s squat leaves the goods in, makes a cup almost mandatory behind the plate, no matter how old the catcher may be. In my day, the hard plastic cups at the sporting goods store came in three sizes. Small, medium, and large. At nine years old, the small was still five times larger than I needed it to be, but it was my only choice. Then began the conversation that every parent in America who has ever shopped for a cup with their nine-year-old son has had:

“Take that off your face!”

“But, I’m pretending to be a jet pilot. It’s my oxygen mask.”

“It is not a mask! Take it off your face!”

“But, why?”

“Because it’s gross, that’s why.”

“It’s not gross.”

“Yes it is. Just stop it. It just is. Give that to me.”

The small-size cup fit over my nose and mouth just fine. I could have worn the large cup home as a hat.

Back then, the athletic supporter, commonly known as a “jock strap,” was the only means of holding the cup in place. They consisted of a fabric pouch to hold the cup, an elastic waistband, and two elastic bands sewn on either side to keep it in place. The elastic bands were there to go around either side of your butt and hang on to the bottom of the pouch at your crotch, thus alleviating the need for it to be an athletic thong. While the thong would have no doubt been much less comfortable, the two elastic bands still sat in places that no underwear had gone before. This made you, the novice jock strap-wearer, walk like you were trying to shake something loose inside your trousers. You were constantly reaching around, behind, and up trying to grab the straps to reposition them, but you were never able to get a hold of them through the back of your pants. It was impossible to walk in a straight line while wearing your jockstrap and cup.   

Fast-forward to today, and the world of crotchal-region protection has improved greatly. Material science technology and common sense sizing have caught up to the cup industry. When we went to buy Son Number One’s first cup last year, I was amazed at the advancements. For starters, the days of the traditional jock strap are over. Actually, I think you could probably still get one if you wanted, but I don’t know why you would. Cups are now held in place with regular cotton briefs and tight-fitting boxer trunks, with the cup pocket built right in. Genius! Was that so hard to think of, cup manufacturers of the 70’s and 80’s? We already had briefs, but you just couldn’t make the connection, huh? Oh, well. No elastic straps in strange places for today’s youth. Good for them.

Also, somewhere along the line, the industry realized that kids between seven and eighteen years old come in more than three sizes, so the cups are now on a graduated, albeit confusing, scale. After figuring out if we were “youth” or “peewee,” and “regular” or “large,” we settled on a peewee large, youth size 6-7. I found it kind of humorous that the manufacturer apparently shied away from the term “small,” but was OK with “peewee.” I guess it’s always going to be a terminology minefield when you’re trying to place names on the different sizes for that region of the male anatomy.

The cup was much more size-appropriate than mine was back in the day, and it was better contoured and even semi-flexible. Mine was like shoving an empty tuna can down your pants. Things have come a long way since I was a kid playing little league. Although, some things won’t ever change, I guess. It was promptly removed from the package and placed over the nose and mouth, like a strange miniature flight attendant giving a really weird safety briefing.

“Take that off your face!”

“But, I’m pretending to be a jet pilot. It’s my oxygen mask.”

“It is not a mask! Take it off your face!” 

Well, the new cup technology and the “classic peewee briefs” did their jobs last season, keeping Son Number One safe and sound on the field, and making it difficult for him to walk in a straight line. We’re getting ready for another season now, and Son Number Two is moving up into the cup leagues this year. We were talking about cups the other day, and how he would need one this year, and Son Number One decided, due to his vast experience on the subject, to handle the explanations for me.

“It protects your penis.”

They both thought that was endlessly funny, and I just left it at that, because I didn’t really have the energy to get into the discussion about the rest of its job.

My wife just went shopping at the sporting goods store again, this time without bringing the boys with her, and she came home with a brand new cup and brief combo set. However, as will happen with siblings and articles of clothing, the new one was the next size up, and it was for Son Number One again. She handed it to him and told Son Number Two, “You get his old one.”

Some hand-me-downs are a little weirder than others.

“Take that off your face!”

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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Hoodlums

Apparently, there is something very honest-looking about your forehead and ears, because when you hide them, you look like a criminal. At least, I do.

Ever since I lost the majority of the hair on top of my head, I have been either too cold or too hot. I need to wear a hat outdoors for almost 10 months of the year just to remain at a reasonable temperature. Most of the year a baseball cap works just fine, but for the brutal 15 days of winter here in California, I need something a little warmer on top of my exposed dome.

I got out of the car the other night at Chipotle -- where I was picking up a very nutritious dinner for my wife and I, while our kids were at home with her, eating leftovers and complaining that they didn’t get Chipotle -- when I saw my reflection in the window. I had on my winter beanie cap, and as usual it was pulled down over my ears. If I was the guy at the register inside Chipotle and had seen me coming, I would have assumed I was there to rob the place. I simply look like a ne’er-do-well when I wear a beanie cap.

Women tend to be able to pull the beanie cap look off a lot better than men, but it’s not universal. Most women look cute in a beanie, but occasionally on the wrong woman it can backfire and make her look either homeless, or like your uncle Frank. The beanie doesn’t work on guys at all. There is something about covering up a guy’s ears with a woolen hat that makes them look either untrustworthy, or at the very least, unmotivated. Those are really the only two choices for guys. If you want warm ears you are bound to look like a total slacker or a total hoodlum.

And speaking of hoodlums, let’s not forget the origin of that word. There is also something about your ears that makes you identifiable, or at least recognizable, because in the old days, wearing a hood was all you had to do to conceal your identity during a robbery.

“What did the scoundrels look like?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see their ears.”

The term “hood” has never once been used to describe anything good, except maybe the hood over your stove. Those are handy. In describing people and places, it is less than complimentary. I even dislike the word “hoodie.” It has always left a bad taste in my mouth. It’s another hip shortening of a perfectly good word or term, like “vacay” instead of vacation, or “froyo” instead of frozen yogurt. Are we really so lazy or so busy now that we need to shorten “frozen yogurt” to save time? In my mind, that hipster language is indicative of the disturbingly numerous twenty-something slackers I see walking slowly, iPod ear bud cord protruding from under their hoodie, head down, slack-jawed, skinny jeans hanging low, with an eight-dollar cup of coffee in their hand.  Half the time I can’t honestly tell if the particular societal all-star is male or female. Stand up straight and watch where you’re going! But I digress…

I had never owned a hooded sweatshirt until my mother-in-law unknowingly bought me one last Christmas. I politely said thanks while thinking, “Oh great, a ‘hoodie.’ What am I, an unemployed 20-year-old?” I was planning to give it to my wife to sleep in (she gets very cold when the house dips below 68 degrees), but on a whim, I tried it on first. Suddenly I could see -- or I should say, feel -- what all the fuss was about. My neck was really warm. I didn’t even have to be wearing the hood, and it still kept my neck warm. None of my other clothes had ever done that before. Put the hood all the way on, and forget about it! Total head and neck warmth, all in one. It’s like a balaclava without the terrorist undertones.

The warm factor is great and all, but I still don’t really like wearing the hood. It cuts off all my peripheral vision, and I can’t stand that. Plus there is the hoodlum factor. Literally. I look even more like a criminal in a hoodie than in a beanie. In fact, in a hoodie, I look downright menacing, like I might be there to rob you, or I might be there to Taser you and steal your spleen to sell it on the Chinese black market. It’s not a good look for me. If I were to combine the hoodie with a goatee, I would expect any rational police officer to arrest me on general principle.

My kids, on the other hand, love hoods. Apparently they have not been blindsided by enough fast moving objects yet to fully appreciate their peripheral vision. They don’t look nearly as menacing as I do with the hood up, but they can’t escape the inevitable, so I have a strict “no hoods indoors” rule. It’s partly out of good manners, like “no hats at the dinner table,” but mostly to get them into the habit of removing their hoods before going inside so when they grow up and look like me, they don’t get tackled in the bank lobby.

Speaking of that, have you seen the new trend in kids’ hoodies? They now come with built-in masks. You can zip them up to your neck, and they look just like a regular sweatshirt, but the hood has two front flaps made out of mesh, so if you put the hood up and keep zipping, the hood closes up completely over your head with the mesh front panel completely covering your face. Apparently, based on my observations at the playground, the kid can see just fine out of the mesh mask, but you cannot see their face. The masks and sweatshirts have designs on the front to make the wearer look like a skeleton or a zombie when it is zipped all the way up. What drug cartel or gang syndicate came up with these? Talk about the perfect accessory for your next bank robbery. No more having to borrow your girlfriend’s Pantyhose, or sweating inside an itchy ski mask in July. Perfect for a night on the town, or an impromptu carjacking. Get yours today! 

They even have a version that has a Mohawk sewn into the top of the hood. My boys have expressed great interest in the masked hoodies. Not gonna happen, kid. I’m trying to raise you to look less like a criminal, not more. Trust me, son. When you get to be my age, you don’t want ladies pulling their kids away from you and security guards reaching for their can of pepper spray every time you walk by.

As for me, both my beanie hat and my hoodie are black, the universal color of the bad-guy dress code. Maybe a lighter color would help?

Probably not.

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

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About the Author

I thought we should start the New Year off with a little meet and greet.  Just a Smidge has gained quite a few new readers in 2012, so I thought an "about the author" segment would be helpful. I am the 40-year-old husband of an amazing woman, and father of three boys, affectionately known as Son Number One, Two and Three, currently ranging in ages from eight to four years old. My beautiful wife and I are raising/corralling them in Northern California, where we were both born and raised.

I think we should really start with my name. The following is a segment from “The Name,” the very first Just a Smidge post I ever wrote, way back in June of 2008. It is also the forward of my latest book, The Tree of Death, and Other Hilarious Stories.

I am a fourth-generation American who was born and raised in California, but you would never guess that when looking at my name, so I really feel like I should start with an explanation. It's spelled Schmatjen. It's pronounced "Smidgen", like a smidgen of this, and a smidgen of that. No one in the family knows why. It's German, but some kind of strange hill-people German that were more Austrian, or more Swiss, or more drunk than regular Germans.

So we all went by "Smidge." Once you pronounce it for people, that's your nickname. No getting around it, and all in all it's a pretty good deal for a kid. If you're destined for a certain nickname, it's nice to know ahead of time that it's going to be palatable.

In the Schmatjen clan, there is a general rule that because of the last name's inherent spelling and pronunciation issues, the first names had better be fool-proof. So, inexplicably, my folks named me Marc with a "C." I'm not sure what they were thinking at the time, but looking back on it, it seems ill-advised. I have always liked it, but it invariably adds an extra dimension to the name-explaining process that we Schmatjens constantly go through.

So that’s the story on the name. Now, here are 23 other facts that you should know about me:

1) My wife thinks I am a great driver.

2) My grandpa killed General Patton's dog.

3) Bright sunlight makes me sneeze.

4) I am related to a U.S. president, but I forget which one. I think it's either Grover Cleveland or Woodrow Wilson. I don't care. I would only be excited if it was Teddy Roosevelt, and it isn't.

5) My favorite movie is a tie between Romancing the Stone and Fletch.

6) Until I was in my teens, I thought that coffee really would stunt your growth, and that drinking alcohol made your beard grow faster, because in the movies, when guys would wake up hung-over, they always had a five-o’clock shadow.

7) I cry at the end of Rudy.

8) I am slightly over six feet tall, I weigh just over 200 pounds, and I have the bladder capacity of a four-year-old.

9) My two favorite flavors are slightly burnt pepperoni and toasted sesame seeds.

10) I swam 100,000 yards in one week when I was in high school.

11) I can remember movie quotes and song lyrics from 20 years ago, but I can't remember what my wife just told me three minutes ago.

12) I did a flying squirrel off of a 60-foot-tall rock into Lake Havasu, and I have very mixed feelings about my kids ever trying something like that.

13) I constantly get my left and right mixed up. It makes driving directions with my wife difficult.

14) My favorite joke of all time is: A guy walks into the psychiatrist’s office wearing nothing but underwear made out of Saran wrap. The psychiatrist looks at him and says, "Well, I can clearly see you’re nuts."

15) My basic math skills leave something to be desired.

16) I cannot stand cantaloupe. Fruit salad that contains cantaloupe is completely ruined.

17) I was born without the ability to have any sympathy whatsoever for stupidity.

18) I have had the controls of an airplane for about 10 seconds. I was not good at flying straight or level.

19) I crossed into Switzerland underground briefly while in a salt mine, but I have never been there above ground.

20) My favorite place to be is on a boat.

21) I have never wanted to be younger.

22) I truly like almost everybody I meet.

23) My wife is still laughing right now about #1.

So there you have it, folks. You now know everything you need to know about me. We'll be back to our regularly scheduled programming next week.

Happy New Year, everybody!

See you soon,

-Smidge

Copyright © 2013 Marc Schmatjen

The Just a Smidge Anthology (Volume I) has arrived!
Get your copy today for only $0.99!
Go get your copy of "The Tree of Death, and Other Hilarious Stories" for your mobile device’s free Kindle, Nook, or iBooks app. You’re going to love it!