In the history of entries that were entered into my blog today, the below was perhaps the least entertaining entry ever written.

Today I pretended I lived in California. I also pretended it was December. It’s fun to golf in December. Sarah went to Dairy Queen (also something that’s just not quite as fun in Michigan in December). I wonder if I’ve said December quite enough yet. December. When it’s December 20, we’ll have been in December, I mean California, for December months. I mean six Decembers. I December six months.

Just a slight addendum to that last post: for all you doctors, dentists, CEOs or squirrels who might or might not provide me with a good or service at some point in the near or far distant future, I was not suggesting that you were rich and didn’t have to do any work and so you golfed all day. I was merely suggesting that you were rich and golfed all day because you don’t have a lot of work to do.

But in that above suggestion, of course, I seem as if I’m suggesting that you don’t have a lot of work do. Might I suggest that you’ve misinterpreted my suggestion? I suggest that after work you do some serious thinking about my suggestions.

If astronauts are in space for 10 days at a time, I have to wonder, what do they do for the rest of the year? This brings me to the problem. Today I played golf. If astronauts have 355 days off every year (which, I know they don’t, but I’m using hyperbole to make this more interesting to all the people who aren’t reading what I’ve written), you know that they play a lot of golf. That’s just what wealthy, non-working people do. Fortunately, I’m quite sure that people who play golf aren’t just astronauts: there are the baseball players, CEOs, retired professional golfers, retired CEOs, retired baseball players, salesmen trying to sell things to rich people, football players, a basketball player, two squirrels, every doctor (if it’s Wednesday), every dentist (if it’s Thursday), and me.

Today I had a fight with each member of my family. I thought this would make the upcoming goodbyes to be that much easier. If it works, I plan to launch a full-scale promotional campaign for my new book, “Hate Your Way from Home.”

I realized today how close I am to working for NASA. I was taking out the trash when Styrofoam started falling all over the place. The end.

Sarah and I spent the last three days without power, completely isolated from the modern world. Sure, we used a generator to run the refrigerator and freezer; sure, we dumped water in the toilet tank so we could still flush; sure we used the propane grill to cook; we were isolated. ISOLATED! It’s a good thing no one ever has interrupted power in California; that would be annoying.

For three days, I’ve been silent. No more. I had a major breakthrough. Granted, it wasn’t by choice. Early Sunday morning, a major thunderstorm wiped out our power. Due to the green color of the air and the rushing wind that sounded like a freight-train, I did what an unself-respecting, not-astronaut-material type person would do. I ran to the basement in my underwear. As I spent the next three days without power, completely isolated from all astronaut-related temptation, I did hard blue-collar work. After a strong solar storm, would an astronaut clean up debris near his or her ship? No! Would I clean up debris near my house? Absolutely. I wasn’t even fooled when my wife suggested I consider being a cosmonaut.

In regard to the font color below, I'll try not to let it happen again.

I built further onto the successes of yesterday by installing new speakers into my car, but I experienced a minor setback later in the evening. To be sure, I could argue that it wasn’t my fault; however, I’ll take the high road and accept some responsibility. While installing my speakers, I found my mind drifting into a world where I promised myself I’d never go again: multivariate calculus. Sadly, I must admit, I was doing it. In my head.

One minor disclaimer referring to the above passage: none of it is true, save for the parts that actually occurred. You were a fool to believe me. And an even bigger fool in your disbelief. Something in here smells funny.

Well, I thought it was about time for me to add something to OUR blog. And I really like purple, so anytime you see it, you'll know it's me, Sarah! Anyways, while Max has been getting our cars ready for our trip out to the west coast, I have been diligently copying, coloring, glueing, filing, laminating, and cutting in preparation for my first ever classroom. Though some may not see this as work, it has definitely kept me busy and easily overwhelmed as I face the exciting and terrifying prospect of my first of year of teaching...

~Sarah not Max

Today I installed CD players into both my and my wife’s cars. I believe that I made significant progress in not becoming an astronaut: I didn’t think about space; I didn’t float anywhere, and I didn’t gain any new skills that would help me in the space program. Sure, you could argue that I honed important mechanical skills that would undoubtedly allow me to be a better spaceman, or spaceperson, if you prefer. But if you did try and make that point, you’d be wrong, and I wouldn’t hesitate to say that you’ve never installed a car radio. Let’s just say that the toughest part is matching the colors of the car wires with the colors of the radio wires. This is a zero sum game. I win; therefore, you lose. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go straight to not being an astronaut.

Today I went outside and saw that my car had a flat tire. “Hard to drive to California like that,” I thought. Six hours later, I’d completely removed the dashboard, cleaned everything inside, fixed a broken vent and sticking pop-out cup-holder, replaced my non-functioning radio with an old CD player, removed the dash on Sarah’s car, and installed another old CD player. Oh, and I filled the tire with air.

Seriously, to whom is that is that idiot talking? What an idiotic idiot filled with idiocy. I like him.

Anywho, there’s something about four in the morning that makes me want to not explain anything to you. I’ll see you tomorrow.

That’s funny, the last post assumes that I have a reader. How sad.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. I’m screwing with the times on the screen where I post my messages. Of the last 14 posts I’ve written, probably only 80 of them have actually been posted at the listed times. The other three have all been written within the last three minutes. Something about short posts being more likely to captivate the reader.

The fact of the matter remains: I still don’t know what you’re talking about. Scratch that, you don’t know what I’m talking about. Because, undoubtedly (or perhaps somewhat doubtedly), you’re not talking about anything; you’re reading, remember. Don’t you hate it when an author talks to his audience? It’s almost like the author expects them to answer. What an idiot.

It is clear to me that I’ve explained nothing. Perhaps I should make things clear. In that regard, a poem:

I went to college, graduated in three years, worked for two to send my wife through school, applied to PhD programs in social psychology, didn’t get in, and am apparently taking some time off to think.

I realize that the above was not a poem, but, quite frankly, who said that it had to be? Throughout the decades that I’ve maintained this blog, no one has. Went to go for it. Did you really expect a complete, coherent sentence? We hasn’t. Please refer to the previous post if you doubt my credentials regarding English-language proficiency.

Sarah made her triumphant return to Lapeer today. Unfortunately, it wasn’t triumphant; I don’t even think it was umphant; I was just attempting to be interesting. Not that it wasn’t good to have her back. I’ll just have to do all of my chip eating in secret.

Meager beginnings

Let me begin by telling a story. There once was a bright lad. When I say bright, I don’t mean that he glowed. A literal interpretation of the text would clearly indicate that he was purely luminescent, but my intention was to show that he was quick-witted. In other words, his wits came quickly to him. Sure, you could argue that those weren’t actually ‘other words’ (but you would be wrong: notice that in the latter version, I used the adverb ‘quickly’ to modify the verb ‘came’; conversely, in the former, I created the adverb ‘quick-witted’ in order to modify the linking verb ‘was’).

In any case, the lad was not an English student. He spoke English, mind you, but he was neither from England nor a scholar of the English language. If you ask me, which you didn’t but might have if given the opportunity (which you weren’t), he was slightly pedantic with all that he’d learned. For the sake of simple clarification, I don’t use pedantic in the literal sense of “as a pedant.” Though the lad was a scholar, he seemed to enjoy touting his learning to some degree. Perhaps a better description of the lad’s…

Quite frankly, I’m tired of this now.

The Midwestern work ethic remains: no more of this post-every-other-day, woo-hoo-look-at-me-I’m-going-to-California-stuff. No. Instead, I will return to my Michigan roots and toil, writing nearly four sentences a day for at least two days in a row. That’s what I’m talking about.

Quite frankly, what am I talking about? Nothing. Speaking of nothing, that’s exactly what I didn’t not do today. For the last few days, Sarah’s been in Grand Rapids preparing classroom materials and eating ice cream, lots of ice cream. I, on the other hand, I’ve been here in Lapeer, eating moderate amounts of ice cream while preparing nothing. But I’m just practicing for when I don’t have things to do this fall.

Well, I seem to have missed a day already; clearly, I’m assimilating to the hang loose ideals of California. At least, I’ve been told that such ideals exist. At least, I assume that they do. Okay, maybe I just really would like it if they did; otherwise, I’m going to look a little silly with no job or prospects.

As Sarah and I begin a new phase in our life, I thought it best that the events be documented. In that accord, I would like to officially present Seeing Orange, one couple’s account of the transition to living on the west coast.