Allow me, if you will, to propose a rule.

We've all been there. Right in the middle of a very important phone call. Something like a merger or an acquisition. A debut verbal exchange with the woman/man of your dreams. Perhaps even a dramatic heart-to-heart with a friend that time forgot. The phone call is going absolutely swimmingly, then all of a sudden and without warning, it goes silent.

Dropped.

Now, the dropped call isn't the problem. It's the confusion that immediately follows the droppage. But fear ye nay, for I have a plan to combat said confusion much like unto a punch to the throat. Now let's take a look.

Once both parties realize the phone call has been dropped, one of two things will happen.

1. Both parties will try to call the other back, thus resulting in the call-waiting-tango.

2. Both parties will wait for the other to call, finally realizing the other isn't going to call, thus resulting in a delayed call-waiting-tango.

So which of these scenarios are we to replicate? Neither. I would like to propose the following as standard cell phone etiquette:

In the event of a dropped cell phone call, the call back is the responsibility of the original caller.

So in other words, if you call someone and said call gets dropped, it is your responsibility to institute the re-call. It is my belief that if this simple rule can become commonplace in the world of cellular phoning, a combined millions of hours of confusion would be avoided.

So please, help me help the world. Help me help you.

Today's lunch was no ordinary lunch.

Sure, it may have started out that way, but when it was all said and done I had something magical to show for it. Something exciting. Something moving. Something to arouse the senses. Yes, all of them. So, without any further ado, I present to you the outcome of today's lunch break. Prepare yourself for heart-cracking awesomeness.

I'm selling my right-brain on ebay.

CLICK HERE TO SEE ONLINE AUCTION

Just when I was convinced that I was safe from OCD, a beloved co-worker brought another example of my strange behavior to my attention.

CO-WORKER: Steve, why do you always remove the labels from juice bottles before you drink them?

ME: What? I don't do that.

CO-WORKER: Yes you do. You just did.

ME: Oh, I did, didn't I?

CO-WORKER: Yeah, why do you do that?

ME: I don't know, I guess I just do.

Said co-worker then raised an eyebrow that said, "Okay Mr. Psycho" and walked off. Oh crap. Am I Mr. Psycho? Were her eyebrows telling the truth - a truth that not even I realize? Is it only a matter of time before I slash people up with dull butter knives and hide their carcass remains in used mattresses? Mattresses that I've removed the labels from? Run away people, run away!

So, my kid sleeps with her boots on. What's the big deal?

If you would have asked me about starting a brain farm last week, I would have had my doubts.

But now that I'm heavily invested in the project, I'm fully confident I'll reap its rewards. You see, a few weeks ago, the idea came to me not unlike a boiling ball to the groin - Start a brain farm! From that moment on, my life hasn't been the same. I quickly utilized the help of a fellow co-worker to locate and purchase ten "Amazing Growing Brains" off the interweb homepage siteway.

I patiently waited.

Yesterday, they arrived. Observing the printed instructions, I quickly filled a large container full of Luke-warm water. To be fair, it was more of a Travis-warm than a Luke, but I believe if you can't insert your own sense of originality in everything you do, you shouldn't even do it. I then placed said bowl of Travis-warm water on the window sill, where my soon-to-be brainlets could receive adequate nutriments from the sun.



I then proceeded to lovingly place each brainlet in the bowl. Instantly, I felt connected. There they rested. So small. So innocent. So full of potential. So full of life. This world is nothing but a gigantic canvas of opportunity for them. I'm proud to have started them on their journey.



It is with great pleasure that I introduce you to my new family. Please take a moment and familiarize yourself with each of them. I'm confident you'll discover they all have their own personalities and talents, and that great joy can result from their rapport.

This is going to be beautiful.

They say pregnancy makes the mother's brain loopy.

Well, I believe it.

A few hours ago, my dearest Hailey (who is 8 months pregnant) received a phone call from a neighbor of ours asking if she would take their trash can out to the curb for them, as they weren't home. She politely agreed to the task and offered her services. And by hers, I mean mine. At approximately 10:00 in the PM, she walked into the living room, between me and some shoot 'em up movie starring "The Rock" and informed me of my duty. I waited for a commercial break and then headed for the front door. Hailey decided she'd join me, as the assignment was only a few houses down the street. I headed out into the crisp night air. Hailey followed, closing the front door.

As soon as the door shut, a combination of fear and panic struck across her face.

"It's locked," she said. Her eyes asked, "Do you have your keys?"

HOLY ____.

We both sat there, stunned for a moment trying to contemplate our predicament. Our daughter was asleep in her crib, so not getting back inside immediately was not an option. I thought we could call our friends, the Jacobs, as they had a spare key, but then I realized that not only had they returned our key (for our realtor) but that both of our cell phones were locked inside as well.

Plan B. Searching for an open window.

We walked around to the back of the house. Yes! The window to the kitchen was cracked slightly. Now all I needed to do was remove the screen, climb up there and get myself in. Simple right? Wrong. You see, the screens on our windows were designed to deter would-be burglars with their befuddling trickery - a small latch that could only be accessed from the inside.

After several minutes and many attempts using various things found in the garage, I managed to remove the screen, as well as most of the skin on my knuckles. Hailey had long since become bored with my failed attempts, as she wandered around the back yard mumbling critiques of my "sub-par" yardwork. I then climbed up on a chair to open the window. As I began pushing it up, it suddenly stopped. Drat! Another anti-burglary device! This time on the inside. Our windows have small latches that can be set to limit how far the window can be opened. Unfortunately for me, they refrained the window from opening up far enough for me to climb through.

I had no choice, the latches were removed by force.

I then reached up inside the window frame and began to pull myself up into the window. Please keep in mind, this is much easier said than done. I soon found myself in a very pivotal moment. A moment of choice. A moment where I either backed down onto the chair or fully committed myself to going through the window. As I pushed off, the chair fell over and down off the deck, leaving my legs dangling. I started to fall out. I quickly grabbed the first thing I could find. Unfortunately for me, said thing had something really sharp on it. With my other hand, I grabbed the corner of the kitchen table and pulled myself up. My pelvic bones (which will be bruised in the morning) smashed up against the window frame. The pain caused me to leap forward, sending my helpless body crashing to the hardwood floor of our kitchen.

Hailey: "Hey Steve, when was the last time you edged? Oh, are you okay?"

I pulled myself from the floor, hobbled over to the back door and unlocked it, letting Hailey in. Her smirk spoke volumes. Her silence was quickly broken by an outburst of laughter.

Me: "Really funny!"

Now that we were back in the house and confident in our daughter's safety, we set out down the street to accomplish our initial task. When we got there, we discovered that someone had already taken the trash out. I thought to myself, "Hmm, well this sure blows."

But you want to know what really blows?



It turns out the door was never really locked.

You swear, I swear. We all wear our underwear.

Is there anything funnier than a kid wearing her underwear as outerwear? Especially when said underwear isn't really hers? Kith and kin alike were bellied over at the sight of our little one's innocent display of her friend's unmentionables. Meanwhile, said friend wasn't quite sure what to make of the comical display of her recently-adopted lil' pants. Leave it to us to contribute to the already well established confusion surrounding another's potty training efforts. Sorry Lauren. Undies are serious business.

My OCD dilemma continues.

Today, whilst in a state of work, I noticed myself involved in another behavior that could possibly be cause for alarm in this ongoing saga of potential obsessive-compulsive disorder. So, once again, I call on your expertise. Previously, we explored my incessant need to ensure my sales price at the gas pump was rounded to the nearest tenth. We dicussed how this must be accomplished at no expense. Even in the face of potentially dangerous gas overflow? Sure, if that's what it takes to make it to the 0.

But this particular behavior is a little different. It seems to be a concoction of oddness.

Figure A1


As you can see, when I consume candies of candy-coatedness such as M&Ms and Skittles, they must be arranged on my desk in perfectly aligned columns, separated by colors, arranged in the color scheme, with all markings facing up. I then must eat them one color/column at a time, in order to maintain a level of high similarities between columns.

Cause for alarm?