A little redecorating

Sometimes it's good to move the furniture around a bit, get a different haircut, clean out the closet and donate the clothes that no longer fit or are out of fashion. I don't like doing any of these things myself, because they require too much effort and merely highlight my outdated style or laziness. If it were up to me, the couches in our family room would never be moved. I don't like exposing the couch leg indentations in the carpet, because they take forever to go away, plus I find way too many pens, peanuts and paper clips when furniture is moved. I do get a haircut once a month, but it's the same style. Clippers at setting No. 3 on the side, short on top -- just enough so it looks spiky. Low-maintenance; no comb or brush needed, just a little product (gel). As for my clothes, if I can still button or zip them without having to hold my breath and if my uber-white body doesn't show through any holes, they are staying in my closet. This blog, which debuted last year, has had the same look for months. The template was attractive and contemporary, but looking at it every day reminded me that it's leaving couch leg marks in the virtual carpet that is my computer. So today, I dumped the old template and went with this updated, dot-looking thing. The content is the same, just re-packaged. Kind of like most Web content that is "borrowed" from newspapers and "re-purposed" as original, except this is all mine. (Photo courtesy of Hiddenloop's Photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/hiddenloop/2985319074/)

My hometown of Hollister is not known for its culinary diversity. We have pizza places, Chinese food places, Mexican food places, fast food places and a few sandwich places. There is no real family dining, sit-down-type place like Applebee's or Olive Garden or even Denny's -- though we do have a Jerry's. If we're in the mood for Italian food, we've got to head outside the county. If we are tired of burritos and pepperoni pizza and chow mein, we've got to get in the car and drive for at least 20 minutes to find a different type of restaurant. This afternoon, I noticed that our limited local menu expanded a bit with the opening of a buffet restaurant. Now, if we're lucky, we can get pizza, Chinese, Mexican, fast food and sandwiches all in one, convenient location. Plus, we can eat as much of it as we want. When I was in college, the idea of all-I-could-eat was enticing. Going to Sizzler for the steak and all-you-can-eat shrimp meal was like winning the lottery. The all-you-can-eat salad bar at Wendy's was a Friday tradition for my cash-poor friends and me. Now that I am older and the calories don't burn away like they used to, the idea of refilling my plate repeatedly has lost most of its appeal. I get just as hungry, but I feel twice as full after a big meal. Being the reporter that I am, I do plan to visit the local buffet, at least once, and investigate its offerings. I may regret the decision, because I love to eat more than I should. Fortunately, Pinnacle Urgent Care shares a parking lot with the new buffet, so if I go into a food coma from over-stuffing, my family won't need to call an ambulance. (photo courtesy of Abulic Monkey's Photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/abulic_monkey/2742905884/)

Mmm, meat

Eating pork ribs can evoke an ancient, carnal response; turning an ordinary dinner into a gluttonous session of satiation. From the way the meat is ripped from the bone to the dripping sauce and shreds of meat stuck between one's teeth, it's like a medieval feast --albeit with place settings, napkins and indoor plumbing. I had a half-rack of ribs for dinner tonight, and it was good. Ordering a side salad and and iced tea may not have been the most manly way to accompany the meal, but I went through three napkins during my feast and I had to wash my hands when I got home so I wouldn't wake up the next day smelling of barbecue sauce. The irony of eating meat off animal bones with my hands was that after futilely wiping off my fingers with a napkin, I had to tear open the tiny "moist towelette" pouch to finish the job, leaving my tasting tools lemony-fresh. I didn't care though, my belly was full and I felt like Fred Flintstone after polishing off some car-tipping Brontosaurus ribs. It was a testosterone party, with a hint of lemon scent. (photo courtesy of izik's Photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/izik/2858328816/)

I want the real thing

It has become a running joke in my family that every time I decide to order a Coke at a restaurant the waiter or waitress says, "Is Pepsi alright?" In my younger, less discerning days, I would either say "that's fine" or "yeah, sure." As I've gotten older, however, I've realized that if I feel like drinking a Coke and ordering a Coke, I want a Coke. When I order orange juice, I don't want to hear, "Would apple juice be OK?" When I order a steak, don't tell me, "The chicken's really good tonight. Will that work?" In this week's column, I address my drink ordering issue in more depth. I also mention how my dad, being the nice guy that he is, prefers to reverse to server-servee roles and put the decision in the hand of the wait-person. If he wants a cola, he'll now ask for "Coke/Pepsi." If he's in the mood for a clear soda, the list gets longer. "Sprite/7Up/Sierra Mist." He gives the list and lets the waiter or waitress pick the beverage. It's ingenious, and a bit of a cop out at the same time. But hey, I'll drink to that. (photo courtesy of Orin Zebest's Photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/orinrobertjohn/1054035018/)

Putting pride aside

I am nowhere near the exercise fiend that my wife is. If she says she's going to the gym, she's going to the gym. She's like the post office -- neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays my wife from the swift completion of her rounds at the exercise machines. If there were an earthquake that destroyed the gym, I believe she would climb through the rubble, dust off the seat of a spin bike, and get to work. I, too, am like the post office in that it takes me a couple of days to deliver on my promise of going to work out. Since the turn of the new year, I have been to Gold's Gym three times in five days; and for that I am proud. Today, putting male pride aside, I even joined my wife for a 40-minute, instructor-guided session on the spin bikes. I insisted that we set up at the back of the room so the other participants would not have to watch me struggle. As it turns out, I rather enjoyed the workout. While I was the only male in this session, I didn't feel out of place. Everyone was there to burn calories and work up a sweat, so they didn't care what the person next to them or behind them was doing. We were all just trying to keep pace with the instructor. I was trying not to look like a quitter, or more importantly, die. My workout fiendishness will never approach that of my wife, but if I can go postal (in an exercise sense) just a fraction of the amount that she does, I think it'll deliver some results. (photo courtesy of kretyen's Photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/kretyen/2703821359/)

Lose games, not perspective

My seventh-and eighth-grade basketball team lost its first game of the year this evening, stinking up the gym in a four-point loss to another local team. We played poorly and uninspired and deserved to lose. As the coach, I didn't push the right buttons or put the right combinations of players on the court and I take the blame. As I was delivering my post-game speech, I reminded the players that sometimes losing can be beneficial. They, of course, looked at me skeptically, as they -- like me and their parents in the stands -- much prefer winning to losing. But players and coaches and parents need to experience the bitter taste of defeat in order to appreciate the sweetness of victory. I reminded my team to remember the way that they felt when the buzzer sounded to end the game and use that for motivation when they practice this week. It's easy to handle winning. It's not so easy to handle losing. If they learn to win with grace and turn the feeling of disappointment after a loss into motivation, then losing now and then has its benefits. We don't get salaries for this or covered by the media or criticized on sports blogs. We play for an hour on Sundays and hope to win as much as we can while having fun in the process. Our success ultimately will be defined by improvement, though judged by our record. The coaches, players and parents can all learn from losing. None of us like it or hope for it, but if we use defeat as a lesson, the perspective gained will be the victory. (photo courtesy of j9sk9s' Photstream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/j9sk9s/4128778346/)

Welcome to Twenty Ten

I woke up this morning 10 hours after 2010 began, ready to take on the new year and new decade, even with my lingering uncertainty over what to call either of them. Is the year, 2010, supposed to be pronounced "twenty ten" or "two thousand ten?" And what decade are we in? "The tens" sounds odd. "The teens?" That doesn't work because the years 2010, 2011, and 2012 aren't teens. As my first in-year resolution, I settled this morning on calling this year "twenty ten." Even though I called last year "two thousand nine" which would mean that "two thousand ten" would be the natural follow-up, "twenty ten" sounds better to me, so that's what it'll be. My second big decision of the year (the first was whether to use Log Cabin syrup or grandma's homemade syrup on my waffles -- grandma won) was solidified when I read on SFGate.com that the National Association of Good Grammar has decreed that 2010 should be pronounced "twenty ten." I'm glad when my grammatical choices, or any choices for that matter, are affirmed by a fancy-sounding organization. So with that debate settled, I know need to figure out what to call this decade. In this month's issue of The New Yorker, Rebecca Mead asks in The Talk of The Town column what we should call the just-completed ten-year period. "We still don't have a good collective name for the first decade of the twenty-first century," she writes. "At least, not one beyond 'the first decade of the twenty-first century'." Mead mentioned options such as "the ohs," "the zips" and "the nadas," before saying "the aughts" is likely the posthumous name for the time period. Fine, that works for me. As for the years 2010-2019, we've got 10 years to figure that out, so I'm not going to worry about it on the first day of the decade. (photo courtesy of Optical Illusions' Photostream at http://www.flickr.com/photos/optical_illusion/4219923214/)