Shocked, I decided to make the varmint pay for his trespass. I turned to my trusty dog and said, “Callie, go get ‘em!” My dog - who vigorously defends my property against skunks, possums, and delivery trucks - blinked twice, and rolled over as if to say, “Rub my belly?” Man’s best friend, indeed.

I can’t rule out the possibility that Callie has reached some sort of non-aggression pact with the local rodent population. Anyone who has watched classic Looney Tunes knows that there is a real danger for local house pets that resist the local vermin population (Sylvester the Cat, for one, got abducted and almost ritually slaughtered). Another possibility is that my dog is just getting a bit older and more relaxed about sharing the local resources of food and shelter. Or maybe she’s just going deaf and losing her sense of smell. Or maybe dogs as a species don’t care as much about mice as they do about mailmen.

Whatever the reason for my dog’s sudden largesse, I cannot be so generous about sharing my abode with members of the long-tailed twitchy nose society. The next morning I purchased a large variety of snap traps. I decided against the idea of poison – because having mice die and rot in my walls creeps me out – and against glue traps, because I have this mental image of my dog trotting around with a trap glued to her nose. I set the traps in strategic locations around the house and hoped to duplicate my somewhat famous collegiate success with eliminating household pests.

I was living in a fraternity house at the time. There were rumors among the residents that a large rat had been sighted, and that various snacks had been nibbled. The thought of rats made sense because, after all, we lived in a fraternity house and it was disgusting (as opposed to now, when our house is pretty darned clean. I may drop a Cheerio under the couch once in a while, but still). I didn’t really take the rat reports very seriously – none of my snacks had been nibbled - until one evening when I returned to the house after class.

There, standing in the kitchen, was the biggest rat I have ever seen. It was at least a foot long, with a tail at least as long as that, and probably half a foot longer. My fight or flight instincts were ignored as my brain hit the reset button, and I just stood there, frozen. The beast looked up at me and then, out of what I suspect was courtesy more than fear, slowly turned and ambled his bulk into the pantry and disappeared under the cabinets. I looked under the cabinets, expecting to see some cavernous hole torn in the woodwork, but there was nothing. Rats, even ones large enough to be saddled, are trained contortionists.

I then marched to the local hardware store, where I bought the biggest rat trap I could find. I only bought one, because I was a poor college student who wasn’t going to blow his semester party budget on traps, and because I had only seen one rat. I smeared the trap with peanut butter, hefted the crash bar back (no small feat) and placed the trap in the pantry. I didn’t tuck it in a corner; instead I just left it in the middle of the floor (which in retrospect was quite a danger to the toes of anyone who might have sleepily shuffled into the room for a late night snack).

Later that evening, or to be more accurate very early the next morning, I was furiously typing a paper (funny how some things haven’t changed) when I heard a loud SNAP. I ran to the pantry and saw that Kong had been defeated. I allowed a moment of silence in deference to the passing of such an impressive creature, and then tracked down a shovel and hefted him into the trash can outside. For the next day or so, a steady steam of sightseers came to our house to view the dispatched giant.

We didn’t have any rodent problems after that. Perhaps the local population of clear-thinking rats wanted to avoid the filth of that fraternity house, but it is more likely that the rat I killed had already eaten all of his competition.

I am hopeful that my experience as a big game hunter in Lowell will translate to success hunting much smaller game in Clinton. My wife, who gets queasy at the idea of killing anything, especially something as cute as a small mouse, made a brief argument for joining the dog in the spirit of détente, but I held firm. Since my wife has, in the past, snapped her finger in a mouse trap (“I couldn’t help it, I just felt drawn to it,” she explained), it goes without saying that everything mouse-related is my responsibility. Now I just have to find some way of dressing the mice up as tiny postmen.

He looked at me, and the shovel stuck in the snow bank next to me, and asked, “Don’t you have a snow blower?”

I do, I answered, but the snow isn’t heavy and I need the exercise.

“Exercise is for people without cable TV. Speaking of which, have you been watching the Olympics?”

Yeah, I have, a bit. I watched ski jumping the other day and was surprised to find out that there are style points involved. So, in theory, you could jump more distance than the next guy, but because he looked better doing it he could win. Wow, that guy only jumped 10 meters, but he is super hot, so he gets the gold. It’s kind of like the BCS in college football; win all of your games and hope they vote for you.

“That is a bit weird. You know, with all of the judging, I’m surprised that the Olympics don’t get better ratings. I mean, it’s not that different from American Idol.”

How is that?

“In both cases you have these people nobody has ever heard of before trying to compete on a major stage. In American Idol they are singing, but the back stories they give you for the contestants is pretty similar to the stories they do on the Olympic athletes. You watch a little bit about the person’s history, and then you watch them compete. Sometimes they succeed, sometimes they blow it. It’s compelling.”

Maybe the Olympic judges should wear white t-shirts and make snarky comments to the athletes: I’m just not feeling that triple toe loop, dog.

“If the judges had any kind of showmanship, I’m telling you, huge ratings. Maybe they could get Paula; I think she’s free. I could see the Scott Hamilton guy as a shorter Simon Cowell.”

I suppose suggesting something like that would make the stodgy old Olympic officials’ heads explode. As long as we’re going there, though, why not let the ski jumpers on the ground throw one snowball at their airborne opponents. Being able to take an iceball in the chops and still pull off a Telemark landing would really deserve style points.

Maybe they could create a shoveling competition. You could enter, since you seem to enjoy it so much. If you use the snow blower, you can get right back inside and finish painting the baby’s room.”

Gee, thanks for the tip. I’m getting a jump on the father’s ability to escape, I mean, do outdoor chores instead of indoor chores.

“Don’t you like painting? I remember when I was in high school I used to paint all kinds of stuff – water towers, bridges, rocks, my little brother…”

Painting isn’t that bad, except I can’t do anything that requires actual skill. I end up slopping paint all over everything. What I don’t like is spackling. The other day I was trying to sand some spackle and at the end I was covered head to toe with plaster – I looked like a mummy. Did you know that spackle sticks to contact lenses? And the taste - well, it was no kindergarten paste, but it wasn’t half bad.

“Ah, paste, I remember it well. There was one vintage I liked the best; I think it was Elmer’s 1976. Not too dry, and didn’t stick to the roof of your mouth.”

Yes, ’76 was a good year.

“Nice talking to you, but I should probably hit the road. My wife thinks I’m out buying salt for the steps, but I think I’ll swing by the coffee shop so I can read the paper in peace…don’t look at me like that. Just wait, you’ll be looking to eke out a half hour for yourself here and there once you have a baby in the house. Oh, and tell The Megger that Richard is a nice name for a boy. Ricky McCaffrey had a nice ring to it.”

It’s the other nickname I’d be worried about, but thanks for the idea.

But by the time I said it, Rick was already swinging into the cab of his truck. There was a thump as the emergency brake was released, and the pickup shambled down the road toward Rick’s half hour of freedom.

Twice in my adult life, I have gone to a movie that has been out for more than a month and been concerned that it might be sold out. Both of these movies were made by James Cameron – Titanic and most recently, Avatar.

I was a little hesitant to see Avatar because it was panned by my movie critic friends because the story line was, as they put it, a little thin. But, my techno-geek friends insisted that I should see it in the theaters, just because it is so cool. I’m generally the type of person who gets annoyed with a movie if the story is poor, even if there are great special effects (this means you, Michael Bay), but I figured that Avatar might be worth a trip to the theater.

So, this past week I dragged The Megger, who is not a fan of science fiction, to the theater, which was so full that we had to sit in the front section. It took us a few minutes to get used to the 3-D effects, but after that, well, wow. Just wow.

Sure, the story might have seemed a bit like Dances with Wolves, or maybe Pocahontas, and it was a bit predictable; but it was a completely new movie experience. If I had any hair, it would have been blown back. Avatar is what the newer Star Wars movies hoped to be, but they weren’t even close. James Cameron took things to the next level, just like he did with the first two Terminator movies, Aliens, and Titanic. As we were leaving the theater, The Megger turned to me and said, “Thank you for making me come see this movie”…

…As happy as I was to see Scott Brown win the Senate seat, I am a bit uncomfortable with everyone piling on with criticism of Martha Coakley. Even Saturday Night Live took shots at her – they may have been trying to parody President Obama, but the jokes came off as mean-spirited instead of funny. I thought that she handled herself well in defeat, and I see no reason to denigrate her. As my wife said, if most politicians could come across during their campaigns like they do when they are giving their concession speeches, they would not have lost in the first place.

It boils down to the fact that our state needs balance, and the country needed more balance, and Scott Brown’s election was just a first step toward that end. If the legislation that the Democrats wanted to pass for the country is good legislation, then it should stand up to the test of the two-party system. If health care reform is truly the goal, then the Democrats should worry more about spreading the word about why the bill is a good idea, and less time bemoaning the shortcomings of Martha Coakley…

…Soon after I graduated from Lowell, some of my female friends decided to start a book club and invited me to join. I love to read, so I enthusiastically agreed. Many of my friends are not big readers, so I was looking forward to sitting in a room and discussing books with other people (something I later paid good money to do at Fitchburg State College).

It was decided that my friend Andrea would choose the first book, and she chose Message in a Bottle by Nicholas Sparks. Now, if you are not familiar with Mr. Sparks’ catalog, let me tell that, as a man, I do not fall into his target reader demographic. Mr. Sparks’ website describes Message in a Bottle as “an achingly lovely novel of happenstance, desire, and the choices that matter most,” so you can decide for yourself. It was popular enough to be made into a movie starring Kevin Costner and Robin Wright Penn.

Granted, Mr. Sparks has been able to make a good living with his books - he likely has gobs of talent, especially when compared to a hack like me. But, Message in a Bottle was utter pap. It was syrupy, cliché, and mostly awful, and at one point I became so enraged with its ridiculousness that I fired the paperback off of the wall of my apartment. I picked it back up, though, because I really wanted to be part of this book club.

Naturally, when the time came to meet and discuss the book, no one else had read it. Not even Andrea, who had chosen it. I was the only one who had bothered to wade through the mire of that glorified romance novel. I wanted to get revenge, perhaps by choosing a sports book, but realized that it was pointless because no one would read it.

What I know now is that this is how book clubs work – a book is chosen, no one reads it, and then everyone shows up to drink wine. I wish someone had told me. I would have just stayed home and watched ESPN while drinking my wine in a less organized fashion.

It is odd that we would argue about this because generally my wife and I agree on most things. We pretty much spend our time trying to force decisions onto the other person (“what do you want for dinner?” “I dunno, what do you want?” etc.), so if one of us goes to the trouble of coming up with an idea, the other person will usually appreciate the effort by readily agreeing to it. There have only been two decisions I can remember that we actually disagreed about.

The first was when we were registering for silverware. We went to a store, snagged one of those cool scanners, and marched to the silverware department with the intent of clearing that item from the “To Do” list. Then, to our surprise, we each had a strong opinion on the matter.

The Megger was interested in silverware that was, primarily, entertaining. “Different” and “funky” were important criteria in her selection process – I like to joke that she wanted to buy forks with no tines just because they were trendy. That is an exaggeration, but she wanted silverware that would be striking and make an impression. My concern was with functionality. I figured that I would be eating with this silverware for many years, God willing, and I wanted something that wouldn’t annoy me while transferring my food from plate to mouth. Cool, I thought, was a transitory thing and I didn’t want to be stuck with non-useful silverware once its hipness had expired.

So, every pattern that I recommended was too boring for The Megger, and every pattern she recommended gave up too much of its usefulness in pursuit of art. Eventually, we had to give up and go home. In time, we were able to strike a balance and select silverware that was both attractive and useful, but both of us were surprised that the other had been so stubborn on that issue.

That situation appears to be recurring with the process of choosing a name for our unborn child. I tend to prefer names that are time-tested and traditional, where my wife prefers names that are a bit newer. My concern is that, with many of the new names, they are also very trendy, so every kid in school is going end up with the same “different” name.

My wife, on the other hand, believes that many of the names I prefer are boring. People have been naming their children the same old names for years on end, so why repeat such unoriginal thinking? Can’t we turn the page and choose new names with at least a possibility of being interesting? It’s a fair point.

My counter is that if everyone’s child has a trendy name, then to use an old-fashioned name is somewhat trendy and different. So far, she’s not buying it. But, to her credit, she’s much more motivated to resolve this dispute than I am. So far, our conversations about this topic have gone as follows (I will not print the names we actually discuss to avoid the complications that might result):

Megger (flipping through a name book): Let’s talk about names.

Me: Ok.

Megger (pointing to a name in the book): How about this name?

Me: No. I hate that name. It sounds weird.

Megger: Ok, how about this name?

Me: No, a kid I went to school with had that name and he picked on me.

Megger: Hmm, ok. How about this name?

Me: That name is too popular now.

Megger: Fine. How about this one?

Me (emitting some form of offensive gas): Meh.

As you can see, my wife is being extremely patient, while I am not really participating in the process. In fact, admittedly, I’m being a bit of a prat. Perhaps it is because my friends have all told me that as soon as the baby is born, I will turn to my wife and tell her that any name she wants is just perfect. That could be it, but I think I am too stubborn for that situation to be likely (the oddsmakers in Vegas have taken it off the board).

It is also possible that I am just nervous about having a healthy baby and to agree on a name would be to commit too much of myself in case there is some problem. This theory is bolstered by the fact that my wife and I can’t even agree on a nickname for the unborn lad (I prefer “Bronco,” you know, because he kicks a lot and because it’s funny). If fear is my reason, however, it is clearly idiotic (no surprise when dealing with me). If there is to be some issue with the baby (God forbid), then I doubt that I will take any solace in the fact that there wasn’t a name involved.

What I need to do is to take the process seriously by buckling down and coming to the table with name suggestions of my own. I’m sure that once I actually buy into the process, we’ll come to an agreement pretty quickly (we always do) and then we can move on to the painting, cleaning, and saving that must be done. Ok. We have a plan. First, though, I think there’s a little chocolate chip left in the freezer.

Achievement is something that everyone craves. We want to have the ability to point at something we’ve done and have our effort in that area noted and appreciated, even if it’s something that only we look at and appreciate for ourselves. For example, my father plays the game Free Cell on his computer, and he writes down the number of every game he conquers. Now, this could be so that he doesn’t inadvertently repeat a game, but I suspect it is more likely so that he can look back at the sheets and sheets full of game numbers, and feel like he has accomplished something.

Companies see this need in people and the games they produce sell that feeling of achievement. In online role playing games, like World of Warcraft, there are tasks that need to be completed in order to increase the level of the player’s character. Some of these tasks are repetitive, even boring, but players will log hours online to complete those tasks. It’s not because any of these players burn with the desire to have their character get to the18th level, but because having an 18th level character represents a certain amount of accomplishment in the gaming community.

This extends into the area of hobbies as well. People collect things, for example, and feel like if they can just collect that next thing – that rare baseball card or car they have always wanted – they will be fulfilled. It’s a desire that burns in the collector’s soul, yet somehow that’s not what happens.

When that long-desired item is finally collected – or the online game character attains the highest possible level – there might be a fleeting moment of euphoria, but once the euphoria subsides it is decidedly anti-climactic. There is an empty feeling at the lack of challenge that lies ahead. I think that this might be related to the fact that, once we have grown up, many of the achievements that were fulfilling to us as children (collecting baseball cards, etc.) are not as meaningful to our adult minds. So, even when we achieve our goals in those areas, there is still an empty feeling.

I think this unfilled need for achievement is a product of our modern, affluent society. We spend our leisure time “relaxing” night after night, and those days stacked with a lack of productivity gnaw at our souls.

Visit a nursing home and you might see several elderly people sitting in front of a television, passing the time. There is nothing they need to do, so some of them do nothing. This is a depressing thought, but is it really that much less depressing than what many people do in their own living rooms every night of the year? Sure, they might break up the sedentary periods with commuting to work, or going out to a restaurant, club, or movie; but a movie is really just television on a larger scale, with the added bonus of butter-flavored grease on the popcorn.

Other people drink, or take drugs, because those chemicals take the brain away and allow people to avoid thinking about the drudgery. Junk food does this as well. Much like a tap from Cesar Millan on the shank of a barking dog, a quick jolt of sugar lifts the spirits enough to distract the eater from boredom; but as soon as that sugar high passes, the boredom returns and it is off to the fridge for some more chewable entertainment.

It seems to make sense that the earliest people didn’t have to worry about an unfilled need to do something productive. For them, every hour of every day was so full with the task of survival – hunting or gathering food, discovering fire, that sort of thing – that by the time the caveman’s eyes shut, he was happy just to have made it through another day. Granted, the caveman still painted pictures on the wall – much like my father with his solitaire game, he still wanted some record of his achievement.

But, what do to for those of us lucky enough to have such trivial problems as “what am I doing with my life?” I suppose that one option would be to find a career that provides a sense of importance. After all, if you go to a party and try to relate the story of your last great success underwriting an insurance policy, people - even your coworkers - are going to nod politely while looking for an escape route. Unless you are firefighter or some other form of professional do-gooder, you will probably feel the need to find something outside of the daily office grind to provide a real sense of accomplishment.

There are several options available. Religion, politics, charity work, and fantasy sports all help people fill the hours after dinner and before bedtime. But, in my humble opinion, the easiest thing to do is to get a pet (well, unless you are allergic, in which case my lawyer would like me to instruct you in no uncertain terms NOT to get a pet). In and of itself, unless the beast has escaped and is running free in the traffic of your local streets, owning a pet is a stress reducer. Even the small tasks of feeding, brushing, walking, or just sitting and patting a pet matters to the animal. You are making an effort, and it is making a difference, if only to the dog or cat, and making a difference is what matters.

It’s been a while since I’ve written, and I’m sorry about that. For the last few months of 2009, I just couldn’t write. But, 2010 is a new beginning, so I hope we can leave those dark times behind us and start over. Deep breath, fingers on the home row, and:

For Christmas, my wife bought me an Amazon Kindle (a portable electronic reader that enables the user to download books and read them on a screen). She explained that since I love to read, and I love gadgets, it seemed like the perfect gift. I hadn’t really expected to get one, as it seemed extravagant to spend money on a Kindle when I can just read paper books, but I have enjoyed it so far. The books themselves seem to be much less expensive (as you would expect, since the publisher doesn’t have to print them), so maybe it will work out in the long run.

Of course, there are some differences between the Kindle and regular books. For example, I recently accidentally deleted one of my Kindle books.

You see, the little joystick button wasn’t responding, so I did what all users do: I clicked it a bunch of times. Then, I helplessly watched a menu pop up with an option to delete the book, and poof, it was gone. There is no recycle bin for the Kindle, so that sucker was gone. I suppose it’s the equivalent of accidentally dropping a real book into a fireplace, or leaving a bag of newly purchased books at a movie theater (which I did this past year).

I suspect that my Kindle scenario confirmed the fears of people who are uncomfortable using computers. Most people who are not comfortable with computers think that by just clicking around, they will accidentally delete all of the gold from Fort Knox, or otherwise do some form of permanent damage. I usually try to reassure these people that they should feel comfortable clicking around because, no matter what, whatever they do can usually be fixed pretty easily.

As proof of this, I would like to say that my problem was fixed easily. I simply re-purchased the book…

…Like any sports fan that enjoys watching gutsy players, I was really sad to see Wes Welker go down with a knee injury this past Sunday. Welker is such a little dude (for a pro football player), and there have been so many times during his Patriots career when he has been simply crushed by a defender. He’d get popped and I’d think, “Oh, he’s got to be hurt,” only to see him jump up and jog back to the huddle. In a way, although I’m sure it must be frustrating to Welker, I’m a bit glad that it wasn’t a defender who dealt him the injury (if he HAD to get hurt, that is).

Players like Welker are very rare, and it has been a joy to watch him these past few years. I hope he is able to return to his status as the toughest tackle dodger in the NFL…

…Staying on the topics of sports, my prediction is that the Sox will be just fine this year, assuming that their pitching steps up. Hopefully Dice-K will live up to his potential.

Jason Bay was a good player, but he tended to disappear against good pitchers, so I thought he was overpaid by the Mets. In 5 years we will be happy that the Sox didn’t make that commitment to Bay. I think that his replacement, Mike Cameron, is going to be fine in the outfield and he should provide a little bit of pop, although it will be frustrating to watch him strike out 135 times.

I’m not sure why the Sox signed Marco Scutaro, but I’m willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I would have been happy simply re-upping Alex Gonzalez, but Theo never seems to be happy when someone comes in and actually does the job at short. Orlando Cabrera and Gonzalez (twice) have come in and been just fine, but Theo threw them away for Edgar Renteria, Julio Lugo, and now Scutaro. I hope this time it works out.

Also, I’m sorry to see Mike Lowell, if he stays, take a smaller role. Lowell projects himself as a classy guy and it was a joy to watch him play. I understand that it was probably time to move on, but still, I hope he gets traded and gets a chance to play every day. Hopefully his replacement, Adrian Beltre, will flash some leather around and contribute at least some with the bat.…

…Ok, I am going to shift gears away from sports and get serious for a moment. I lost my brother Jim in November, after a brave and terrible 5-year fight with melanoma. Jim was much too young and he left behind a family and friends who miss him desperately. I want to ask everyone to please, please get a dermatology screening for yourselves and for those you love. It’s quick, it’s easy, and it could save your life. Also, as the song says, use sunscreen.

If even one person beats the disease because he or she caught it early, my brother will know, and he will be glad (he was competitive like that).

Thank you for the time,

Tim

Back when I got my debit card from my bank, the fact that it had the MasterCard symbol on it was a selling point. I could use it like a credit card, without any actual credit being involved! Wow!

But, it seems that vendors aren’t so very thrilled about the whole thing. In fact, many of them seem downright unhappy about the idea, and I’m sure it’s because they have to pay the credit card vendor. When I first got the debit card, if I didn’t use it as a credit card I had to pay a non-approved ATM fee, so using the card became a bit of a tug of war with the vendor over who had to pay.

The last time I was at Wal-Mart, they simply refused to allow me to use my debit card as a credit card. When I asked for an explanation they gave me some spiel about lawsuits and company policies. Other companies allow me to use the credit feature, but they are a bit sneaky about the whole thing; probably because they are more concerned than Wal-Mart is about losing my business.

The grocery store just puts up a number pad for my PIN, without any apparent option for me to choose credit. I can, however, choose Cancel and charge the food.

One of the local liquor stores adds a small amount to my total when they see me pull out my card; they do it very casually and never mention it. If they see me pulling out a card while ringing up my order, they just slyly add it onto the total, but if I wait, they add it on later. I asked about the extra charge once and they explained that they exact a fee to use the card. I complained about it and they removed the fee, but now I try to shop elsewhere.

Many gas stations program their pumps to ask me straight out, “Is this a debit card?” If I am honest and press “Yes,” then I have to spend a pre-determined amount and enter my PIN. If I lie and press “No,” the pump allows me to use the card as a credit card. The whole thing puts me in a very weird position: I want to fill up my tank, but I hate lying, even to a gas pump. I wish they just asked, “Would you like to use this as a debit card?” It would do wonders for my conscience…

…I was walking out of a nice restaurant recently and realized that I had something stuck in my teeth. The restaurant didn’t have any toothpicks available at the front desk, but there was a little box with business cards. I have to say that, in a pinch, a business card makes a mighty fine toothpick. As my wife says, stand back ladies, he’s taken…

…Everyone has seen those cell phone commercials – the ones where there is a crowd of people standing there with some bespectacled dude who says, “You’re good!” to the person who is worried about cell coverage. That company is so great that they even cover notorious dead zones like the scary motel with the scratchy towels and the house with crabgrass. The message is clear: There are no dead zones for that company!

This was exciting news for me. My house is located at the bottom of a hill, and my old cell company just couldn’t give me any bars at my house. When my wife wanted a new phone, we changed providers to use the company with the snappy commercials.
Excited, I raced home with my new phone, turned it on, and waited for the dude with the glasses to show up and give me coverage. And waited. Eventually, I went to bed - but left a glass of milk and cookies out in case he showed up while I was asleep. He never did.

Apparently hills are just too much of a natural obstacle for the new fangled cell phone technology. I can understand, because with so few hills in the world, the cell companies can’t be expected to develop the ability to overcome such a rare and powerful phenomenon. Until they do, though, I am left with crabgrass and scratchy towels but no cell service. Not good…

…In my house, I’m the cook. I’m certainly not great, but I enjoy it and I manage to muddle my way through a number of different recipes. I have recently found, however, that I am unable to properly hard boil eggs.

Now, hard boiling eggs should be the easiest thing in the world. To be sure, I asked my friend – a culinary school grad – to write down his special recipe (which doesn’t give you a green sulfur ring around the yoke). Put the eggs in a pan and cover them with water. Bring the water to a boil, take the pan off the heat, and let it sit for 10 minutes. Then, put the eggs in a cold water or ice bath to stop the cooking process.

Easy, right? Not for this idiot.

The first six eggs went into the pan. I brought them to a boil, and then let them boil for 10 minutes because I apparently can’t read.

The next six eggs went into the pan. The pan was still hot, so a couple of the eggs cracked a little. I ignored this, turned on the heat and walked out of the room. I got distracted, and ended up talking to my mailman for a bit. Next thing I knew, it was 20 minutes later and what little water was left in the pan was boiling furiously. You would think that at this point I would try to cook just one egg rather than waste them in such large bunches. Nope.

After a trip to the store, six more eggs went into the now cool pan. I brought them to a boil and took them off the heat. I let them sit in the hot water for 10 minutes and then took them out of the pan and put them into a big bowl full of ice water. I let them cool for a while, then took them out of the bowl and patted them dry.

I cracked one of the eggs and started to peel it, and the egg white stuck to the shell. It stuck so much, in fact, that huge chunks of white were coming off and the egg was basically disintegrating in my hands. I tried peeling all of them and it was the same story. Each egg ended up as a mess, with huge chunks taken out of it. I have no idea what I did wrong, but I know one thing I did right: There was no green sulfur ring around the yolk.

The Megger has a much better track record than I do with regard to music. She was a disc jockey at her college radio station, and even before that was an early adopter of the band REM. When CD’s replaced tapes, the first two CD’s she bought were the classics Ten by Pearl Jam and Nevermind by Nirvana. These days, merely by listening to the first few notes The Megger can recall the name and artist of just about any song that was on the radio in the past 20 years.

I have no such music cred. I might have 2,221 songs on my iPod – 6.5 days worth - but all of my playlists are alphabetical by band name.

My first CD, which I bought in 1994, was Face Value by Phil Collins - plucked from a bargain bin because of the song “In the Air Tonight.” That song, released in 1981, certainly wasn’t cool in 1994. Further, I didn’t even own a CD player at the time, so I had to go around to my friends and use their CD players to listen to stale Phil Collins music. That didn’t exactly help my social standing.

During that same time period, I once called WBCN, the recently departed radio station known as the Rock of Boston, and asked them to play “Rocky Raccoon.” The DJ laughed so hard I feared he might have a seizure, and then he hung up on me.

My excuse for this behavior is that my appreciation of music came relatively late in life. When I was young – a time when I should have been rocking out to “Centerfold” by The J. Geils Band or “I Love Rock and Roll” by Joan Jett and the Blackhearts - my favorite songs were “Ebony and Ivory” and “Hello.” This was my dark secret. I was sure that if I told anyone at school it would result in daily beatings by a gang of denim-clad AC/DC fans.

My first two years of high school weren’t exactly stellar from a music standpoint, either. While other people were watching MTV, I was poring over baseball statistics and listening to Rush Limbaugh (I know!). This may go a long way toward explaining why I was never invited to a party nor had a girlfriend in high school - no one wants to hang out with a 15-year old Republican.

Things got a bit better after that, thankfully. Once I started driving and listening to the radio, music became a bigger part of my life. Today I have an appreciation for all kinds of music and my iPod contains everything from classical to metal to rap (and yes, even some country). Some people might say that my taste is quite eclectic, while others might say that I am too stupid about music to be discerning. I suspect that both might be true.

If I put in the time to listen to any song enough (although I have no idea how many times is “enough”), I find that I will come around and enjoy it. This is probably common. It explains why many older people are stuck in whatever musical era happened when they had the time to listen to new stuff enough to enjoy it. This is also why many parents find themselves humming Wiggles tunes when their kids aren’t around.

An example of this was my first Air Force roommate, who was constantly playing Pink Floyd. I used to make fun of him for liking Pink Floyd and constantly moaned about how awful it was to have to endure it day after day. But after he moved out I found myself at the music store picking up some Floyd tapes. Yes, I’m a hypocrite, but I like what I know.

That doesn’t mean I know it well, however. For example, I once bet $20 that the Beatles wrote the song “Hazy Shade of Winter” (it was Paul Simon) and then, later laid cash on my memory that The Doors didn’t have a drummer (they indeed had a drummer, John Densmore, but no bass player). Once my friends found out that my ignorance could be profitable they began to jostle for position to feed me drinks and argue about music. The lesson, which took far too long for me to learn, is that I am an idiot.

My biggest issue these days is that I tend to clutter my iPod with songs that I think I “should” enjoy instead of songs that I do enjoy. Everything I read says that Blonde on Blonde is a great album, but I had it on my iPod for two years and never played it on purpose. Not once. But I take up space with it due to my fear that some imaginary music critic (who I imagine is wearing a beret and really small dark glasses) will pick up my iPod and find my character lacking. It’s preposterous. Since it’s all so subjective, who would be so presumptuous as to judge someone on his or her taste in music?

I would; at least when it’s Nickelback. I looked at my beloved wife, her eyes closed as she sang, and said, “Get my attorney on the phone. I wish to begin divorce proceedings.” College DJ or no college DJ, some things just can’t be tolerated.

I’ve been running during my lunch breaks at work. After running, I shower and change in a small shower room in my office. After my shower, I like to use a little baby powder. This is because, as a larger man, when I run there are certain things, like my legs, that rub together that maybe don’t rub together on more reasonably sized people.

After I apply the powder, a noticeable amount of it tends to be left on the floor. This is a small problem, but I’m not sure how to resolve it (is there another way to apply powder other than to put it in your hand and pat it on?). But, does that need to be resolved? It’s just powder. It gets vacuumed up by the cleaning crew. No biggie.

No biggie, that is, until a couple of weeks ago when a sign went up on the door of the shower room. It was warning people that towels left in the room would be thrown away (no problem for me), but at the bottom it contained the following note:

“I have received requests from many users to ask the Extreme Powder Person to lighten up on the talc.”

First, thought: Mortification. These people must think that I bathe in the stuff. Second thought: Wow. They capitalized the letters and everything. I always wanted to have an alter ego, and now I have one. Sure, I’m not the Batman, but the Extreme Powder Person sounds like someone you wouldn’t want to anger, lest he make you - I don’t know - sneeze repeatedly.

I have since discontinued the use of powder in the shower room. You might think it’s because I’m trying to be polite, but in truth I just don’t want anyone to discover my secret identity (at least until I have acquired a suitable costume)…

…I was at a party recently and, after a few adult beverages, decided that it would be a good idea to smoke a cigar. Now, I have never been a regular smoker of anything, but a few years back I made a conscious decision to give up cigars. Not because of the health issues, mind you, but because after smoking one my mouth spent the entire next day tasting like I had snacked at a litter box buffet.

But, because my IQ goes down as my blood alcohol content goes up, I decided that a cigar was just the thing for me. My friend and I smoked them in his driveway and eventually I stumbled off to bed.

The next day, as I was gargling mouth wash for the 7th time, I gave my wife permission to slap the teeth out of my head the next time I even hint that smoking a cigar might be a good idea. She agrees with me that I shouldn’t smoke them, but I think that now she secretly hopes I do it just one more time…

…At that same party, the host - my friend Mike - served something called Bacon Explosion. To make this delicacy, you lay strips of bacon in an interlocking pattern and then spread sausage meat, peppers, barbeque sauce, and crumbled bacon on top. Then you roll it up and throw it on the smoker (or on the grill). When it’s done, you slice it like a jelly roll. Mike was joking that he was going to have us all sign waivers before he let us try it, and I was looking on the wall for a portable defibrillator.

As bad as it might be from a health standpoint, it was delicious, and there was none left over. I hadn’t been sure that I would like it, but in retrospect, since it is created from bacon and sausage, there was little chance of that. Please don’t tell my doctor or my mother that I ate copious amounts of bacon, enjoyed adult beverages to the point of lowering my IQ, and smoked a cigar at this party. To make up for it, I also played a bunch of foosball. Got to get my exercise in…

…Speaking of exercise, I fell while jogging this week. I hadn’t done it in a while, but falling used to be a fairly regular occurrence during my jogs (the scars on my palms attest to that). This most recent time I had just passed a mother and daughter who were waiting for the school bus when I failed to pick my foot up high enough. I kicked a rise in the sidewalk, and began to stumble. My thought process went something like this during my loss of balance:

Denial: I’m not really going to fall, I can regain my balance.
Anger: Why didn’t I pick my foot up? I always do that. I’m so stupid.

There wasn’t time for bargaining or depression, so I skipped right to:

Acceptance (Shouting): Ouch! BAD WORD! REALLY BAD WORD!

I ended up with bloody hands and knees and a scratched iPod. Also, I can’t speak to what kind of day that little girl had at school, but at least she learned something at the bus stop.