Meeting the deadline

Let me apologize right up front for the New Age-iness of this post. It's very unlike me, and yet here it is.

The other day I heard someone say they were "getting close to the horizon." It was a romantic notion, a wistful way of perhaps saying they, at this point in their life, had more yesterdays than tomorrows. They were looking out to what the future holds.

I'm pretty sure it was a metaphor for dying.

My guess is they felt time was moving too fast (SPOILER ALERT: It is). And there were things they wanted to accomplish that, as they were getting "close to the horizon", realized they'd probably never get around to.

To which I say, join the club.

I don't have enough blog space to list the things I'd like to do before I go. But while I keep trying to check items off the bucket list (I know, I don't like the term either), I do try to focus every once in awhile on what I actually have done.

I posted here about my attempts to get my helicopter pilot's license. I was talking to someone about it, bitching and moaning (so unlike me) that I hadn't seen it through to the finish line. They reminded me even though I didn't get it, I did at least fly helicopters for a while. How many people can say that?

Well, I suppose every helicopter pilot can, but I choose not to think about that.

The point is to own my accomplishments instead of constantly lamenting the (yet) unfulfilled ones. I have a house, something my parents never had. I have two beautiful kids, again, something my parents never had (they just had one beautiful kid). I've met people of note, traveled places and seen and done things I've always wanted to.

I think when people start talking about approaching the horizon, it's good to keep in mind life's accomplishments aren't always marked with a bang (insert agency Christmas party joke here). Sometimes they arrive with a whisper.

The minute we're born, all of us begin our one-way trip heading closer to the horizon.

I keep reminding myself the trick is to enjoy it.

Stop sharing

It probably says something about me that I won't let go (figuratively, not literally) of the fact Al Roker admitted on national television to pooping his pants. Or as the kids so delicately call it, sharting.

It bothers me because, and feel free to color me old-fashioned, I still believe that even in these Kardashian-esque days of everybody revealing everything, there's still some information that just doesn't need to be shared.

Here's the thing: we just don't need to know this. I believe that Roker believes he's doing a service by disclosing this information. After all, he had gastric bypass surgery, and the occasional pants pooping is a common side effect. So I hear.

Being a very visible public figure, my guess is he felt he was relaying essential information to everyone watching who's either had or is thinking about having the procedure.

But you know what? That's what the doctors are for.

You don't see Mary Tyler Moore or Halle Berry rattling on in interviews about the digestive issues, nausea, constipation and diarrhea that comes from living with diabetes.

I happen to like Roker. On the Today Show he's often the honest breath of fresh air, for example here where he ripped Spencer Pratt and Heidi Montag a new one, or here where he busts Matt Lauer for getting Anne Curry fired.

It's when he starts discussing business south of the border that I have to draw the line.

Life is good for Al Roker. He's got one of the best jobs on television. He makes tons of money every year. He has his own production company. And he's recognized, respected and loved by millions of people every day.

The only thing he doesn't have is a filter.

Emotionally loaded

It's 2:30 in the morning on a starless, black night.

You're suddenly awakened out of a deep sleep by the harsh sound of shattering glass - a sound you intuitively know means nothing good is about to happen. As you get out of bed to see what it is, extreme unease fills you. Your heart is pounding, all senses are on high alert. As you get to the bedroom doorway, you discover an intruder, a stranger you immediately recognize as a very bad man, moving quickly with very bad intentions down the hallway towards your daughter's room.

You see him, but he doesn't see you. Yet.

The question is what would you like to have on you at this moment. A phone to call 9-1-1 in the hopes they'll get to you faster than he'll get to your daughters' room. Maybe a baseball bat, so you can run up behind him (which he'll hear) and engage in physical combat with him. A flashlight so you can shine it on him and let him know you're there and exactly where you're standing. How about a whistle to blow, so you wake everyone in the house up making it easy for him to know where they are, and who the most vulnerable one is.

For me, the answer is a gun.

If this were the scenario in my house, I'd have no qualms about taking the guy out before he ever reached my kids' room.

I have friends who disagree strongly on this viewpoint. In fact, one of them recently posted on Facebook that you're a moron if you even own a gun. Obviously a much more emotional response to the issue than an informed one.

But that's what the emotion on both sides of the issue drives people to do: paint in broad strokes, and make assumptions that simply aren't true.

Everyone who owns a gun is not a moron, or a killer waiting to happen. I know people who own guns. In fact I know people who own arsenals. Their weapons are legal and registered. They're well trained, responsible people who secure them when not in use. They know and practice gun safety.

In the light of the Newtown tragedy, both sides have a hair trigger when it comes to the other. And it's irrational fear that's driving both of them.

I don't think there's any one answer, but we have to start somewhere. The 23 items Obama put forth today - from assault weapons ban to increased and in-depth background checks - is as good a place as any. I believe monitoring and follow-up should also be part of the mix.

It's ridiculous and ignorant in equal parts to think all people who own guns are morons, or all guns are going to be banned, or the government is going to raid your house and take your guns. What all this talk does is drive gun sales. And the most fearful people who are doing the buying are probably the ones who shouldn't have them.

Do we have a gun culture? Are our children exposed to too much violence? Does it have a detrimental effect? I don't know. Does playing with toy fire trucks mean they're going to grow up to be firemen?

These are all appropriate questions that deserve considered and thoughtful answers.

Right after I take out that guy on the way to my daughters' room.

What is glutton for punishment

I was just trying to think of something I could do to make people say, "I.Q. over 60? Please."

And I've come up with the answer (which may be the only answer I come up with - that'll be funny in a second). I've decided to do again what I've done so unsuccessfully before. I'm taking the contestant quiz to be on Jeopardy.

As you may recall, I posted here about how well it went the last time. But I'm older and wiser now. Well, at least older and fatter. And frankly I consider myself much better versed in European Capitals, Rivers Of The World and Renaissance Artists than I was last time.

The good news is in the test, I don't have to ring in with that impossible buzzer you see contestants wrestling with on the show .

Anyway, if you need me between now and tonight, you'll find me studying up on Civil War Generals, Architecture, "R"eal Words, and the ever popular Potpourri.

And of course I'll also be working on my interesting-yet-humorous-although-not-too-humorous 30-second story for when Alex briefly interviews me after the first commercial.

Wish me what is luck.

My eyes are open

I've posted before here about my problem with floaters and flashes. And I'm not talking about the kind you see downtown at midnight. Ba dum bum!

Because of all these little suckers floating around in my eyes, I have to go to my world-renowned ophthalmologist once a year so he can make sure my retina isn't detached. And every year, he gives me the same answer.

It's not detached, it's just more of a loner. BAM! I'll be here all week.

Anyway, in order to do the exam he has to dilate my eyes. An assistant comes in and puts two drops of the dilating elixir into each eye. I think one of the main ingredients is gasoline because that's what it feels like.

Once my eyes - or anyone's eyes - are dilated, they let in a whole lot of light and there's nothing you can do about it. Usually I get this exam during the day, and I have to wear three pairs of sunglasses (not kidding) to reduce the light coming into my eyes so I can see well enough to drive home.

But since this time the exam was at night, I thought I could get away with not wearing them.

So you're asking, "How'd that work out for ya?"

This is what every headlight looked like on the way home. Each one was a starburst, and every lamp shining from a lamp post looked like fireworks. It was very pretty. I think they design it that way because they know it may be the last thing you ever see as you go careening out of control across four lanes into other cars on the freeway.

The good news is it eventually wears off in about four or five hours, and then once again I'm able to see things as they really are.

Which, as anyone who knows me will tell you, was never a strong suit of mine to begin with.

Mint condition

Good news for anyone who knows a close-talker or people with absolutely no respect for personal space. Now more than ever, there's simply no excuse (was there ever?) for bad breath.

I used to think this was just a problem made up in Listerine and Tic Tac commercials. That was until I worked with a creative director who had the problem. It was the only agency I ever worked at where people arrived early for meetings, then jockeyed for the seat furthest away from him/her (I'm not telling). It was bad, and it may explain why the agency didn't do well in new business meetings.

But now with the plethora of mints to choose from at checkout, usually right below the tabloids featuring some escapade of the Kardashians (why doesn't anyone ask them where their dad put OJ's knife already?), your breath can smell minty fresh in a variety of ways.

When I was growing up (I can't believe I just started a sentence with those words), the only choice you had mint-wise was a nickel or dime York Peppermint Patty. It was awesome because it was essentially the Borg of mints: half candy, half mint.

However with the popularity of Altoids, Tic Tacs, Trident and Orbit (alright, the last two are technically gum - but really, what are you using it for: "chewing pleasure?"), we now have a choice of dedicated breath fresheners in paper, metal or plastic containers.

The challenge of course is to let the mint dissolve all the way instead of chewing it. I usually get about three-quarters of the way, then chew it like rock candy. Peppermint Altoids is my mint of choice. I have a tin in the car, in my briefcase and - when I'm working at an agency - at my desk. I think of it as the crack of breath mints. I pop 'em three and four at a time, and have built up a disturbing immunity to their "curiously strong" flavor.

Often co-workers, spouses and friends aren't aware that their breath smells like a landfill. Fortunately, Altoids also come in inexpensive, small tins as well. Which makes it that much easier if you have a colleague who could use a little breath freshening to discreetly leave one on their desk.

After all, there's a reason mint rhymes with hint.

How big is that bulge

Sorry about the somewhat provocative headline. My close, personal friend and fellow blogger Rich Siegel over at Round Seventeen always tells me the more suggestive the headline the higher the readership. So be sure and tune in for tomorrow's post: Keeping A Breast Of The Situation.

Anyway, my back went out about three days ago and it hasn't come back yet. Four days ago, I was clearing a path in our garage so the termite guys could come hit a few spots where the little wood-chompers were having their winter buffet.

And not to get too much off track here, but why do all termite and pest companies have those stupid cars: VW beetles (no pun intended) with rat ears and a tail, or giant ants crawling up the side of the car? If they're carrying all that pesticide shouldn't the bugs be gone? Don't get me started.

Where was I? Oh yeah. So at one point, I lifted an extremely heavy box of books, and as I was doing it I immediately knew two things: I was lifting it the wrong way, and I was going to pay for it.

The next day, as I sat down in my big, soft, swallow-you-whole reading chair, I heard a pop in my lower back that could only mean one thing. I'm so screwed.

Since it was a holiday weekend, my chiropractor - the incredible Michelle Zarzana - was closed. I texted and asked if there was any chance she'd be in the office on New Year's Eve day. She wasn't planning on it, but said she'd be glad to come in for me.

The woman's a saint and I'm guessing has a special spot in heaven reserved just for her.

After she worked on my back I felt slightly better. Following her advice, I went home and iced my back the rest of the day. Then, going against her advice, I went to see Les Miserables with the family for New Year's Eve. Can I just tell you how good my back felt after sitting in a theater seat for almost three hours?

I dreamed a dream I hadn't done something that stupid.

On January 1st, we went to our friends house in Topanga for the annual New Year's day brunch, and I was at least able to move around.

Today, I went back to Dr. Zarzana. After working more on my back, and talking about my symptoms and pain, she concluded it's probably a bulging disc (between 1 & 2 or 2 & 3 for those of you keeping count). I asked if I'd need surgery for it, and she said no. But she did say I'd have to work on increasing my core strength, and that I definitely had to lose weight.

I get that a lot.

So now, it seems the impossible has happened. If I don't want the lead in the revival of Sunrise At Campobello (look it up), I'm actually going to have to follow through on my annual resolution to lose weight and get in better shape.

Meanwhile, if things get any worse, I may have to have an MRI and see how bad my disc actually is. Which would be okay.

At least then I could show my bulge to anyone who wanted to see it.