Donna’s been coaching volleyball for… 10ish years or so. (No, that’s not her team in the photo, it’s actually Roger Bacon High in Ohio, I didn’t have a picture our our team) I’ve grown to love the game, but there are a few things that really make me smile, even after so many years of watching.

Before any two volleyball teams play each other, they line up on opposite sides of the net, and proceed to slap hands with their opponents, and wish them good luck in the game. The girls are all good sports, but the enthusiasm level during the well-wishing isn’t at it’s highest. When you’re in the stands, you really can’t hear it well, but on the bench, it’s hilarious to hear both teams chant, “g’luck, g’luck, g’luck, g’luck, g’luck” right down the line.

What’s the point of my post? Not much, other than it’s one of the little joys in life that I’m making an effort to notice. If you’re trying to enjoy the little things in life as well, I wish you g’luck!

No, not that, you sicko…

I was reading an article about being happy. It’s one of those things that I’ve always struggled with, so the article really sucked me in. I’ve been across the gamut when it comes to finances. Well, OK, I’ve been across the lower end of that gamut. I make around $40,000 — which should be very comfortable. I’ve noticed that in my life, I’m no more happier now (in general) than when we were financially struggling following a devastating car accident. In fact, I recall more happiness back then. Odd, no?

Here’s a quick list from the article that I’m going to try to adopt:

• Make lists of things for which you’re grateful in your life
• practice random acts of kindness
• forgive your enemies
• notice life’s small pleasures
• take care of your health
• practice positive thinking
• invest time and energy into friendships and family.

On a related note — I really suck at financial responsibility. More money hasn’t helped. Maybe if I live a little happier, I’ll be more likely to make wise decisions. I say that, because it seems as though a lot of the poor financial decisions I/we make are to make us happy. Even when it works, the happiness surely isn’t sustainable.

I’ll close with 2 things. One, I am constantly telling people, “If this is the worst thing that happens today, it’s a GREAT day!” — I need to heed my own wisdom.

Secondly, here’s one of life’s small pleasures that I noticed today. It reminds me of how much our dog enjoys playing with this, one of his only toys. All the “things” I have don’t bring me the pleasure this simple, beaten up toy brings Tigger. Which of us is smarter?

I had a glimpse of a perfect morning (Shawn style), earlier today. It was tainted by sick day guilt, but it was still a refreshing, almost utopia-like view of morning perfection.

I sat at the kitchen counter, on a hard wooden stool. The sun was pouring in the window behind me so that I could feel the warmth soak through my bathrobe. My feet fiddled around with the bar stool rungs, and my over sized monster slippers amused me because they are too big to be practical, yet too fun not to wear. Surprisingly, the contrast of the hard chair, and cold, white, countertop against the cozy bathrobe/slipper/sun combo was quite pleasant. I read my morning paper (which for me, is a 12″ PowerBook, browsing random blogs), and sipped on some fresh coffee. The quiet of a still home, interrupted by occasional sips and “cla-dunk” sounds as I nursed the mug, offered a glimpse of perfection.

The moment vanished quickly, because the dog barked at the neighbor, and the sun brightened a bit so that my screen was hard to read — but those few moments were amazing. I hope that you get a moment or two of perfection today, they make the rest of reality a little easier to manage.

Many months ago (and 2 blog software iterations ago), I did an experiment which involved waking up every morning at 5AM. It was difficult, but I made a video podcast every morning, and it was fun. At the end of the 30 days, I went back to waking up around 7AM, and life went on as normal.

Ironically, my work schedule recently changed, such that I now wake up every morning at 3AM, and go into work at 4. Yikes. Today, I woke up with a huge headache at 3, and tried to get rid of it, so that I could at least go in for a half day at 8. By 6:30, I realized I wasn’t going to be able to manage, so I called in sick. (I still had to leave a message, because no one else gets there before 7:30, but the deed was done.)

I crawled out of bed around 10:30AM, and still felt miserable. Donna had brewed a pot of coffee (she doesn’t drink coffee — it was just for me, awe…), and I felt it was time to move on with the day, headache or not.

The problem I have with sick days, is that I can’t rest. I have this cursed work ethic that gnaws at my soul when I’m home instead of at work. I even have that problem on vacation days. It’s 1PM now, and I feel the urge to go into work and do the things I didn’t do earlier. How sad is that? With my contractually accumulated sick days, I could take off a month and a half STRAIGHT, and no one could complain. I could never do that though. Is that admirable, pathetic, or possibly a little of both?

So how about you, lone reader, do you have sick day guilt when you stay home?

I write because I want people to value my thoughts. Is it because I have self-worth issues? Maybe, but more than that I think it’s that the brain is a lonely place. I am a family man, and my wife and kids know me very well. There is a privacy in thoughts, however, that you can’t really convey well in daily banter. So, I write.

I’d love to be a career writer. No, I’m not saying that fishing for praise or criticism, but rather to lead into the reason I’m rather afraid to do it. Does writing for cash ruin the craft? See, on another level, I love technology. I speak computer. If you’re one of those people that just understand what a computer is or isn’t doing, you know what I mean. I have almost an intuition regarding computer problems, and I’ve never met a problem I couldn’t fix. (Boy was that conceited…) I logically took a career in the computer industry. I’m a Technology Director for a K12 school district. I like computers a lot less than I used to. Really.

Is writing the same? I LOVE to write. I may not have a natural flare for writing like I have for computer repair (again, not fishing for compliments or scorn), but I love it. It fulfills me, and I love to have people read my work. It’s a feeling I can’t explain. Maybe it’s deep seated in a psychological need for acceptance, I dunno, but it gives me joy. If I had to write for a paycheck, would I enjoy it as much? I really don’t know that answer.

Thankfully, I can write as much as or as little as I want. And if you are reading this, at least one person is reading my stuff. (Sorry I make you read my blog Donna, you’re very sweet to do so without falling asleep)

Maybe someday I’ll be able to report on whether getting paid for writing ruins it. But today, I’ll just click publish, make a cup of coffee, and enjoy my Saturday.

First off, I fully believe that “famous people” are absolutely normal people. Often quirky, but that’s not an attribute reserved for the famous. They’re just people.

If there is a difference, it’s the huge disadvantage they have because they’re known by so many more people than they know themselves. So what’s a star to do? Good question, and one that those of us with limited fame can only guess.

It’s not uncommon to see actors, singers, etc. together. While I’m sure it’s not terribly fun to be known by so many, and know so few — misery seems to love company. It makes sense to find comfort with folks that understand the plight of fame. (and yes, I’m sure it is a burden, the cool factor would wear off quickly)

What am I getting at? Here’s the deal:

I’m a fan of Wil Wheaton. Yes, I’m a Trekkie — but much more than that, I enjoy his writing. In fact, he’s the kind of person I’d like to have a cup of coffee with, and discuss our vastly differing views on things. I don’t want his autograph, I don’t want to pose with him for pictures, I don’t want a poster, and I don’t want to steal his shoes to sell on ebay.

Here’s the problem: Wil Wheaton happens to be rather famous. To add insult to injury, the only way I was ever exposed to his writing is due to his connection with Star Trek. I’m not a groupie, I don’t know his favorite foods, I’ve never stood in line for his autograph — but it it weren’t for his fame, I’d probably never have been exposed to his blog.

So now, any attempts to contact him outside the normal “Wil, what was it like to work with Patrick Stewart” type question, delve into the “creepy fan” domain. That kinda sucks.

So, in order to ask him some pointed philosophical questions (like what’s his favorite strategy in “Settlers of Catan”), Wil Wheaton needs to become a fan of *me*, because it’s less creepy that way. (Maybe it’s more creepy that way, but at least I’m not the creep…) So here it goes:

Wil:

I need you to be a huge fan of educational technology. My work in transitioning a school district to Linux thin clients for their primary workstation need to fascinate you. Lengthy diatribes about vegan food, space, struggles with faith, the meaning of life, and coffee should be the first thing you want to read about in the morning. You should know the name of my wife, even though I’ve never introduced you to her.

There. Now we’re even. Drop me an email, we’ll have coffee some time.

Apparently, to me, this sign means: “Women, men in kilts, or people who enjoy sitting in recliners are welcome in this room.” Since I fall into the last category, its OK for me to stroll in, right?

Here’s the deal: my wife and 2 youngest daughters were looking at “capri pants” or some such girly thing. I thought we were about to leave, so I left the electronics department (where I was dreaming of buying a PS2 with Guitar Hero) and followed the fam’ to the front of the store.

When they stopped by the girl’s clearance rack, I figured I had some time to kill, so decided to jaunt to the bathroom. I’m not sure if Walmart stores all over put little displays of guitars and telescopes near the restrooms — but here in northern Michigan, there’s always guitars, telescopes, and metal detectors right outside the bathroom doors.

As I gazed longingly at a $300 telescope, I walked directly into the ladies room. Thankfully, a surprised shopper (of the female variety) was on her way out as I walked in, and I noticed my error by the mortified look on her face.

The good news? Well, apparently I’m manly enough that I don’t pass for a woman. It would have been much more damaging to my psyche if the woman thought it correct for me to walk into the same restroom she had just used. Also, it’s good that she was on her way out, and I didn’t run into her INSIDE the room as I looked around curiously for the urinals.

Oh well, no harm, no foul. I quickly did an about face and went into the proper room, where men get to just pee at the porcelain wall decorations. Heck, in Walmart, we don’t even have to flush anymore — there are sensors that do it for us. If only they could make sensors that automatically made guys wash their hands. Am I the only guy on the planet that actually washes his hands after using the bathroom? Don’t answer that, my manliness has been challenged enough today…