The Lazy Workaholic

In the past, I’ve been accused of being a workaholic, but the truth is I’m sort of a lazy person. I don’t want to do any more work than necessary, because that consumes time that could be spent doing something else. There simply isn’t enough time to do everything that needs doing - at least not all at once. On any given day, I have no less than a million things waiting, competing for my time. Okay, I may have exaggerated slightly, but that is how it seems. All of these things are in cahoots - their sole objective being to keep me from what I really want to do, which is to write. Write songs, write books, articles, poems or just about anything, oh, and now blogs – my latest venture.

Everything under the sun tries to hinder my efforts. There are bills to pay, car repairs, computer and phone issues to take care of, dogs that are sick, a house to maintain, lawn care, errands to run, problems at the bank, problems at the store, and a hundred other chores, and of course my regular “day job.”

Some of these things are associated with writing and seem to be legitimate: research, re-writing, typing, and proofreading, web-design, and promotional endeavors, (for articles and books). Then there is the long list of things specific to writing songs: recording, mixing, and uploading multiple files to various outlets and forums. Add to that the endless forms to fill out and file; copyrights, registrations, submissions, performance rights forms, digital rights forms – I think you get the picture. It is an ongoing, full time job just to keep up on all of the legalities of writing.

The point is all of this extracurricular activity takes time. Time I could spend, well, writing. So, in order to maximize my writing time, I look for the easiest, quickest, and most efficient method to get things done – like I said I’m lazy. I’m always searching for a new way to save time on just about anything – as long as it works, because I absolutely despise doing things over. That is a total waste, limiting the time I could have used to do other things like, well, write.

When I finally do get down to the writing, I become so immersed in my project that the rest of the world fades into obscurity. I have to make a to-do list to ensure that things necessary to survival actually get done, and even then, sometimes they don’t. Just ask my wife, who puts up with my idiosyncrasies of neglecting important tasks and reminds me when I need to eat or maybe fix a broken sink so we can have running water. She’d probably be more inclined to dismiss the whole workaholic characterization, going instead with lazy. And that’s okay. I am lazy. I have to be, or I’d never get any work done.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

Leftovers

Who invented the concept of leftovers anyway? I suppose the idea is a good
one, it saves time and makes perfect economic sense, particularly at today’s
grocery prices. But really, the whole thing is simply not practical – at
least when it comes to my household.

Sure, it sounds easy enough; place the uneaten food into little containers
with matching lids and then save them in the refrigerator. In the next day
or two, reheat the pre-cooked items in the microwave, set the cold dishes
back on the table and voilà – another home-cooked meal at no additional
cost! Brilliant! But, it never works.

See, at my house, once the food goes into the refrigerator, that’s where it
stays until it has morphed into an inedible psychedelic version of its
former state. Only when it has sufficiently become discolored and acquired a
rancid odor is it removed. All the term “leftovers” means in my home is an
opportunity to air out the house – and more dishes!

If we could just bring ourselves to throw the food away in the first place,
we’d save a lot of time and money. But something in our psyche won’t let us.
Forbids it, actually. Why? One possible explanation is that my wife and I
were taught not to be wasteful. So, we dutifully scrape our leftovers into
the little containers with matching lids and then stack them in the
refrigerator. This we do in order to satisfy the “waste not, want not” code
that is so ingrained in us. Then, we promptly forget about it until either
we run out of little containers with matching lids or the putrid smell calls
us to action.

By going through these motions, we feel justified when it all gets dumped
into the garbage. As if sending the food for an extended stay in the cool
confines of the refrigerator and allowing it to slowly rot and mold before
we throw it away is somehow more noble than discarding it the day it was
cooked.

Maybe we just learn not to cook so much. That seems like a feasible plan,
right? It would save time and money and a lot of hassle. The problem is, if
we did that, there would be no leftovers, and then what would we do with all
those little containers and matching lids?

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

Sobriety Test

Flashing red and blue lights in the mirror. Just what every teenage boy wants to see – especially when he’s on a date!

The officer, hard-faced and stern, marched up to the driver’s window, reciting the usual “License and registration” spiel. Then, “ Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Now, for a young and cocky adolescent male, there are a lot of possible answers to that question. Although, most of them are likely to increase the odds of getting a ticket. The fact the boy’s girlfriend was along probably helped stifle what would otherwise have been a mouthy response. Instead, he offered a simple, “No.”

“I observed you weaving and making contact with the yellow line,” the deputy explained. “Have you been drinking anything tonight?”

The eighteen-year-old was rather surprised at the question, since he hadn’t been drinking that night or any other. “Uh, yeah, Dr. Pepper.”

Not amused, the deputy asked the driver to step out of the car, and though it was phrased as a question, the teenager knew it was not a request. Opening the door, he noticed the officer leaning close to smell his breath. Then began a prolonged regiment of sobriety tests; a flashlight in the eyes, following the officer’s pen back and forth, standing first on one foot – then the other, and walking down the white line on the road.

“How many of these tests do I have to pass before you figure out I’m not drunk?” The teenager’s inherent sarcasm was starting to creep back in.

Not answering, the deputy began asking his own questions. And becoming increasingly annoyed, the boy couldn’t resist purposefully being vague. Where have you been? - On a date. Where did you go? - For pizza. Did you have anything to drink? - You already asked that.

Non-pulsed the officer continued. “Why were you weaving? Was something distracting you?”

Hello? Didn’t you see the girl sitting beside me? Thinking better of his response, the boy pointed toward his date. “I was just talking to her.”

After more than half an hour, the officer was finally convinced alcohol hadn’t been a part of the couple’s evening and let them go.

The scene I’ve described above was my first date with the girl who later became my wife. Had I been arrested that night my life would no doubt be far different now. I don’t mean because I might have married someone else, I don’t think I’d have had the chance to. I’m quite certain that if I’d been drinking and driving with his daughter in the car, my future Father-in-law would have killed me. Now that’s a sobering thought!

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com/ or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com/.

Item 21

I’ll admit it - I’m forgetful. I can’t remember to do everything I’m supposed to. Or anything sometimes. I forget basic things like eating and combing my hair. Consider me the absent-minded professor – minus the professor aspect. When going to work, I leave my cell phone at home at least three days a week. If I’m lucky, I’ll miss it before driving too far and circle back to the house. I like to tell myself that I’m just being responsible – keeping an eye on the neighborhood. My neighbors probably think I’m only a few days away from being committed.

Some have suggested my absent-mindedness is just another sign of growing old, like graying hair or aching joints and muscles after those rare times when I can’t avoid manual labor. But, as my Mother would tell you, it’s nothing new. When I was younger, she could send me to do only one thing at a time or I’d forget the rest. My wife now says the same thing. So, if nothing else, at least I’m consistent.

Yet, strange as it may seem, I have an excellent memory. It works great for facts, numbers, names, dates, or to remember the proper sequence of steps for various complex procedures. These sorts of things seem to latch on to some cell of my brain and stay – without me really even trying. This was cool when I was in school. Now? Not so much. No longer does the need exist to memorize anything. I rarely take tests and never recite anything other than songs, which I don’t think count because nobody knows the songs I know. So, the tidbits of trivial information plastered to the walls of my brain are mostly useless. Even my kids don’t ask me much anymore – they prefer Google.

Recently, my wife wrote down a list of what she needed from the grocery store. It seemed like a splendid idea, except I forgot the list - a fact I realized after I’d reached the store. Sure, in this digital age, I had several options; I could call, text, or email – all of which would mean fessing up to my forgetful nature, once again. But wait! I had seen the list. (My mind instantly kicks into gear.) Now I can use that part of my memory that works! But has it been too long? What if I forget something? My wife (and kids) would never let me hear the end of it. Not after telling them for years how good my memory is for that sort of thing.

“I know there were 21 items,” I mused aloud. Asking for a pen and paper from the bewildered cashier, who apparently thought everybody made their shopping list before coming to the store, I quickly began scribbling. Soon the list was complete – almost. Twenty items were scrawled on my paper. I frowned and shook my head. “That’s strange,” I thought. This had never happened before. I decided to start my shopping, hoping the last item would come to me along the way. It didn’t.

I made it almost all the way home. Turning onto my street, I felt the car’s engine cough, then it spluttered and died. And that’s when I remembered. Item 21 was not a grocery item at all. I was supposed to fill the car up with gas.

My wife was kind, sort of. She just rolled her eyes and smiled. An hour later, the car was back in the driveway and full of gas.

I’m sure after reading this story; you will all have a good laugh at my expense. That is, if I remember to post it.

Bruce A. Borders, author and songwriter has over 500 songs and 9 books. Over My Dead Body, his latest ebook, is available on Apple I-Pad®, Amazon Kindle®, Barnes & Noble Nook® and Sony Reader®. For more information, visit http://www.bruceaborders.com or http://overmydeadbody.jimdo.com.

Every kid needs a toy box. My grandson is in an immediate and dire need of one. With an abundance of nearby family members, including; aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents, who routinely convert a certain portion of their paychecks into an endless array of various fascinating gadgets and playthings, the lack of a toy box is becoming increasingly problematic - at least for his parents.

The trouble is toy boxes are expensive. The unsuspecting shopper could easily shell out a $150, or more, for a piece of plastic that will typically break in six months or so. Ah, but I'm not an unsuspecting shopper. I used to be a carpenter. I can build one. One that will last for years, preferably until my grandson and any future siblings are grown. How can I be confident it will last that long? Because such a toy box exists in my son’s room. I built it nearly 18 years ago and it's still in as good of shape as it was the day I brushed on the last coat of varnish. (Despite my three children’s, best attempts to destroy it).

So, for the past week I've been busy; measuring, cutting, drilling, screwing and gluing. I’ve managed to make quite a mess in the kitchen, which incidentally, also doubles as a workshop from time to time. The center island makes a perfect workbench. My wife is no doubt very impressed by my ingenuity! Or not.

Slowly, due to leaving everyday to go to my actual job, which always seems to interfere with the important things I want to do, a toy box emerged. Today I fashioned the hinges onto the lid and added some red-oak stain. Tomorrow I'll start the final step of making it shine. Not bad for week's work.

A quick tally of the receipts shows the project coming in at just under $100. That's great news! It means there's money left over. Money that will, of course, be put to good use - to purchase more toys!

And now you know why every kid needs a toy box.