Secrets to Happiness: Secret #14

We have another physical secret today. It's one that some people swear by and others see it as too intimate (they don't want to be touched by a stranger) or embarrassing (they don't want to be nude in front of a stranger.)

I'm talking about our latest secret:

Get a massage

And don't just get one, but try to budget to have one regularly, about every four to six weeks, more often if you can. Schedule it before your hair or nail appointments (we'll get to the wonders of a pedicure for men at some point, just believe that it is worth the money.)

What about the objections? Well, massage therapists are not sex workers. They are licensed (trained) practitioners in giving massages. Not all masseurs (or masseuses) are equal and they're not all comfortable with every type of massage. But they are all used to touching their clients for the purpose of massage.

And they have seen all body types. A former co-worker of mine who obtained her license specializes in geriatric and Hospice massage, providing comfort and therapy for folks that aren't too worried about their looks.

A good massage therapist will strive to make you comfortable. The massage tables are heated. They use warm oils. Warms towels protect your modesty. Usually soft relaxing music is playing.

There are all types of massages from light Swedish to hot stones to sports massages to intense deep tissue. If you are new to massage, I don't recommend (and no therapist would perform) a deep tissue massage. Most massages last an hour, though they can be as short as ten or fifteen minute chair massages where you remained clothed to two hour full body sessions.

If you're just beginning, I recommend a 45 to 60 minute mild Swedish massage. You will leave feeling relaxed and rejuvenated. Remember, as I said in my post about Jocelyn's Christmas gift from last year, you should have someone drive you just to be safe. The more massages you have, the more you can experiment with the various types, times, and intensities. There are no right or wrong ways, except that it should never cause you lasting pain.

The goal with bodywork is to determine where you are storing your stress. Many keep it in their neck and shoulders and poor posture adds to the tension. Massage can help loosen and relax those muscles, helping you make your own improvements to your body. Bodywork is also helpful if you are regularly exercising. All pro teams employ a massage therapist. It is an essential part of training.

If you do this regularly, you will feel better over time. You will set yourself up to feel happier. Like all of the other secrets, it is such a simple thing, yet most of us never even consider it.

It'll cost anywhere from $45 to $100 or so at most places, depending on the area and the facility (ranging from spartan gyms to ultra exclusive spas.) The typical charge averages from $1 to $2 per minute. If you do use a spa you might want to add in another service, such as a facial treatment or a sauna. If you use a gym, maybe you could get a workout in or sign up for a session with a personal trainer.

What is your experience with bodywork? Do you think it's worth the money? Do you trade massages with your significant other? What are your recommendations?

Knowing what alters our moods

(This logo is from a jazz ensemble in Seattle. Love it. Love the logo. Love the fact that they're all female. Swing, girls.)

There is actually almost too much to say about this topic, but like Alice when talking to the King and Queen of Hearts, we should "begin at the beginning..."

We tend to think of mood as that general feeling caused by our emotions. Our emotions, in turn, are the coloring of our internal responses to both external stimulation and other internal thoughts. (By the way, this is all my conjecture. I'm not a psychology expert in any way.)

Moods, when we notice them, are usually graded as either good, bad, indifferent, or restless. As a matter of fact, that seems like a good structure for mood evaluation. We'll use good/bad as the x-axis and calm/agitated on the y-axis.

All of the feelings in the top two quandrants we would say are positive and good. This is the way we'd prefer to feel if we had a choice.

The stuff below the horizontal axis is stuff that we don't particularly want to feel.

There is an entire self-help industry and medical profession built around avoiding the bad feelings and having the good feelings.

In the self-improvement world, there is a tendency to put our power to choose how we feel to the forefront. How we choose to respond to external stimuli determines whether we are above or below the line. The medical profession would likely say that while you do have the power to choose, those responsorial choices can be limited by your physiology. Diet, exercise, and perhaps a prescription can help in that regard. Those that object to drug therapy usually point to the "artificiality" of the mood created and the tendency for it to inhibit creative, energetic action.

Again, I'm clearly not an MD or PhD in psychology or even a student of self-improvement books (I've not read Seligman or Buscaglia or Robbins, though I did read Covey years ago.) I'm just trying to make sense of my moods and why they change and why it seems like that even though I am completely aware of them, I sometimes still lose control over them.

Why do certain images make me sad? (I remember watching Gabriele Andersen-Schiess finishing the marathon at the LA Games in 1984 and bursting into tears at her suffering as millions of people watched. I thought she was going to die while we all cheered her on.) Why do so-called "pet peeves" really cause a genuine flare of anger? (I hate dropping food.) Where does intense envy that I feel come from?

We all have these types of questions we can ask about ourselves. Sometimes the answers seem to come from our choices, yet other times they do seem to be related to something physical.

Illness can make us irritable or depressed. Lack of sleep is a big cause of easy anger for me. Hunger causes me to become listless and can look like depression. Overeating can do the same thing.

I think the first step in controlling the moods and moving them to the positive side of the diagram is to understand the triggers for bad moods and take steps to avoid them. Those steps are roughly the same as the Secrets to Happiness that I so tongue-in-cheekily list over on the right. I do take them seriously, though.

However, even if we follow all of them perfectly, we're still not going to avoid moods that are below the line. No one is saying that we should smile through a funeral or laugh about being a victim of a crime. Rather, we need to accept that "bad" feelings serve a purpose. They're telling us that something is wrong in our lives. Our responses should be about righting the wrong or accepting the loss, not artificially changing our mood.

I realize that this post seems to be rambling and directionless, at least it feels that way to me, but I've been trying to deal with the fact that there are times when it seems that I am not quite the emotional pilot I could be. I think that's why I'm writing this blog. I want to better understand how to steer (and where to navigate) while I'm on this journey.

If answers were easy, we'd all be super happy. I say if answers are easy, we're probably not asking the right questions. There are no cookie-cutter solutions. Unlike what Tolstoy says about families at the beginning of Anna Karenina, individuals are happy in their own way. I'm trying to figure out my way. I'd like you to contemplate yours and feel free to share it. There are no right and wrong answers, just different levels of effectiveness.

No music? And a couple of notes on content

Even I haven't nominated a happy tune this week? Maybe I should put the Mixtape project on hiatus until after the holidays.

Or maybe not.

If you want to recommend a song for the H-N Mixtape project, leave it in the comments.

Barring anything crazy that prevents it from qualifying (nothing R rated, please and no "Billy Don't Be a Hero" type songs) we'll add it to the list over on the right on Saturday.

REQUEST: Please vote in the poll about whether we continue with hair metal videos. I know I didn't give a choice like "I Don't Care" because if you were too apathetic to care, then I doubted you'd have the gumption to vote.

I can't tell who is voting or how they voted. I just get the results like you do. I will not be voting. So far, the unanimous choice is to continue with them. Before I post anymore videos, I will await the results.

There's nothing that will kill an audience more than one long post and then no other posts for a day or two. Sorry about that, but writing that story, derivative as it is, sapped the creative energy. The 100 nouns post did the same thing. Unfortunately for us, I'm going to be doing that periodically. The best way to change my behavior is to give me your opinion. Otherwise, I will believe that you love everything I write. (If you do, you can leave that opinion, also.)

An act of kindness kills a post, but saves my Saturday

Every fall, like so many other homeowning saps around the world, I have the task of raking leaves two or three times. I sometimes have to do this in the spring, too, because of the stubborness of oak leaves.

My lot is surrounded by trees and they dump leaves and needles and cones and seeds all over the place. A crunchy brown blanket covers everything. The leaves must be removed or the grass will die and the forest will take over my lawn. Mulching works in the early stages, but after a nice windy day, mulching does nothing but make the big leaves little. Everything is still covered in that dusty reddish brown.

To tackle this task, I have a very large rake, a backpack leaf blower, and a monstrous blue tarpaulin that is used exclusively for leaf removal. Because I am surrounded by woods, I merely have to cart the leaves off into them. No bagging, no burning, no leaving them in the ditch for the county to pick up.

But I have a large yard and up until this year, I worked alone. The kids are finally old and strong enough to really help and not hinder the completion of this task.

Imagine my surprise when I arrived home this evening and was met outside by the family (Monica was going with me to the library.) I could see hints of grass in the lights from the house, my headlights show on a black driveway, when I got out of the car I didn't hear any crunching sounds. My family was outside hinting that they worked the whole afternoon raking my fairly large front yard. No way.

Not that they couldn't, but why would they? Then I thought: Jocelyn paid someone to do work that I can do, that I need to do. For some reason, this bothered me. I hate raking leaves, but it is my responsibility, therefore if anyone decides to hire someone to do the chore, that person should be me.

But they were all laughing.

It turns out that my neighbor rented one of the huge hurricane force wind generating blowers. After he did his smaller yard in about 10 minutes, he came over and I did my large yard in about 15 minutes...just because he felt like it. Then he crossed the street to help our neighbor do his gigantic yard.

Of course I said, "Did he do the backyard, too?"

"I knew he would say that!" Monica blurted.

What did we give him for doing this? I was thinking splitting the rental cost. (He has borrowed my power washer before. I'm so neighborly.) Instead he wanted a glass of water.

Jocelyn gave him that and promised a batch of her Christmas cookies.

I was planning a big post about a family working together to accomplish a task and have a little fun at the same time. So much for that.

Thanks Mike for the leaf cleanup. Where were you over the weekend when I installed that shower door?

Science Fair season is upon us

Last year, Monica performed the famous vacuum cleaner bag fill level vs vacuum cleaner performance experiment.

Setting up the experiment with the right surface, the exact size of the vacuumed area, and the exact same choreography for the movement of the vacuum over the area was a major challenge. She also had to set up the various bags with differing amounts of "dirt", which wound up being bird seed.

It was a successful experiment. I would love to link to her subsequent article in Scientific American, but she decided against publishing. She got an "A" on the project. And the result? For our particular vacuum, the cleaning performance doesn't decline until the bag is over 3/4 full. At that point, Monica determined it was probably worth the time to change the bag rather than try to clean with a poor performing vacuum.

But that was all last year.

When I arrived home from work, Monica hopped in the car and we went to the library. Yes, we could've gone online, but she needed to be in a quiet IM-less place where cell phone use is discouraged. We found a multitude of books that had ideas for projects. She has to present three and her science teacher will select one.

Here is what she's proposing:

1) The effects of freezing popcorn on popability, including both microwave and loose kernels.

2) Does home field advantage exist at a team and individual level? This is the one that she is most excited about. (I have to admit that I am, too.)

3) The effects of various types of music on heart rate and blood pressure (yes, we have a sphygmomanmeter, actually two, an electric and a manual.)

We'll here in a week or so which one she'll be doing. So much for January.

For some reason, I never did a science fair project in middle or high school. Did you? Did you enjoy it?

Twice-Told Christmas Tales #1

Six hundred and ninety dollars. That was the total, with two hundred or so of it in loose change and small bills. Money scrounged from her pocketbook and saved by packing her lunches and skipping the happy hours and avoiding the additions to her own personal collections. Delia counted the money a third time. Six hundred and ninety dollars. Christmas was tomorrow.

She could feel a panic attack coming on. She had dreaded counting the money knowing she would fall far short of her goal. Why did she think she could do this? She didn’t have the discipline to save. She could’ve stopped buying wine. She didn’t need a vanilla latte each morning. Delia, lost in self-accusations, wept.

She sat on a brown leather sofa, staring at the mahogany coffee table where her secret pile of money lay. Her feet shuffled uncontrolled on the Anatolian carpet. The flat paneled television hung silently on the wall displaying the Weather Channel. The Christmas tree stood in her periphery, dark, silent, expectant, as if it were ready to browbeat her into action.

A stack of envelopes and magazines lay next to the money. Bills, mostly, addressed to James Henry Grant, would remain unpaid until after the holiday season. Jimmy’s old firm terminated his contract in October and he didn’t find another position until the week before Thanksgiving, and at only two-thirds his prior rate. He worked the Friday after Thanksgiving and now he was working on Christmas Eve.

For a while, the Grants seriously considered selling the house. Delia barely held back the secret fund she had saved since last Christmas. She decided she would keep it and use it for its original purpose no matter what happened. When Jimmy started a new job, she relaxed a little, suppressing the question of whether she had enough for the purchase until after the November holiday.

Delia selected one of Jimmy’s new magazines, the latest issue of Audiophile, and flipped the pages rapidly. The advertisement appeared as if she had summoned it. Christmas Eve had arrived and she was looking at an ad for the exact item she couldn’t afford. Coincidence was mocking her.

She tossed the magazine back on the stack and drying her eyes walked to the bay window. The icicles hanging from the roof looked like cold iron in the cloudy gloom. The neighbor’s cat trotted quickly across the icy hard packed front walk on some unknown feline mission. Seeing the bright orange tabby on the whites and grays of the snow-covered lawn startled Delia.

She whirled around and lightly jogged to the bedroom. Dropping to her knees, she looked under the bed and pull out two large boxes. She opened one of them and removed wads of tissue paper.

The Grants enjoy fine things. In this, they are somewhat normal. However, each of them has a peculiar passion for collecting. Jimmy has his collection of high fidelity vinyl records and Delia Grant has her collection of rare Precious Moments porcelain figurines.

At every dinner party, Jimmy never failed, by his third glass of wine, to take someone into the spare bedroom and show off his Mobile Fidelity Sound Labs long playing records. He would never play them because he believed his equipment was not adequate and could damage his precious vinyl platters. Still, in a reverie, he would describe their sound as having all the subtlety and nuance of a live performance without the clinical sterility that characterized the sounds of the digital age.

Not to be outdone, Delia would dazzle whoever demonstrated the least bit of interest in curios with a sampling of her prized bisque figures with their adorable cherubic cheeks and tear-drop eyes. She had collected all twenty-one of the “Original 21” and she had a few dozen other retired pieces, but she never displayed them. Instead, she set cheap little curios along the fireplace mantel hoping to lure someone into a Precious Moments figurine show.

Delia sat on the bed looking at a little blonde haired porcelain boy holding a shepherd’s crook and a wooly lamb. Her tears plopped onto the tissue paper in her lap. She rewrapped the figurine and placed it gently back in the box. Gathering the two boxes, she set them by the front door.

She stood before the coat closet biting her thumbnail. Then feeling shame at her hesitation, she grabbed her coat, scarf, and gloves and taking the boxes, she set out in her SUV to Molly’s store.
Molly owned a successful collectibles shop in the old part of downtown at First and Main. Delia loved shopping there and never failed to find something to add to her collection. This year, though, Delia had made a point of not buying. Yet staying away from Molly’s store was never an option. She still visited about once per month, just to stay on top of things, to see what she was missing. But this year, she didn’t buy anything.

Now here she was on Christmas Eve, arriving not to purchase, but to sell.

“Merry Christmas, Molly,” Delia said as she set her boxes on the counter.

“And a Merry Christmas to you, too, dear,” said Molly. She was about thirty years older than Delia. She had worked in the shop since the 1960s before buying out the old owner in 1975. She survived two incursions by Hallmark onto old Main Street over the years. She was a tough businessperson, but a smiling charmer to her devoted customers. That charm paid off, for the store was packed with browsing shoppers.

“What can I do fo you, sweetheart?”

“I want you to buy my Precious Moments collection.”

“Ah, don’t you think you’d get a little more selling them yourself?” Molly asked. “Say on eBay?”

“I don’t have time,” Delia said. She looked on the verge of tears as she thought of the wasted days leading up to Christmas.

Molly tilted her head in sympathy, looking with pity on anyone who would have to stoop to selling their cherished collection for less than it was worth. She started to speak and seeing Delia’s bowed head and, perhaps, feeling the Christmas spirit flow through her, she changed tack and said, “Ok, let’s have a look at what you’ve got here.”

They opened the boxes and Delia felt a crushing pressure on her heart as she looked upon treasures she had buried away under her bed. Molly “oohed” and “aahed” as she took each one out and examined it for imperfections. Delia’s hands shook, but she held up as she emptied the second box. Over sixty figures, including the Original 21 sat on the counter.

“They’re all lovely,” Molly said. “But honey,” she whispered. “I only have about $500 in the store right now. Everyone pays with debit and credit cards these days. I’m assuming you need cash.”

“Yes,” Delia said. She hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t given any thought to how much they were worth. Her only thought was that they would bring enough to make up the difference.

“I have an idea, if you don’t mind,” Molly said, and then she whispered her thoughts to Delia.

After Delia reluctantly agreed, Molly raised her voice and got the attention of everyone in the store. Without knowing why Delia needed the money, Molly stated for all to hear that Delia needed to raise funds for a special last minute gift for a loved one and that she had fallen on difficult times. Would the good patrons of Molly’s be willing to buy one or two of this young woman’s Precious Moments figurines? They just had to come up to the counter and make an offer. Cash only, please.

Embarrassed, Delia tried to raise her head and smile at the customers. Then a mother walked over with her young daughter and offered twenty dollars for the little blonde shepherd boy holding the crook and the lamb. Delia accepted with tears in her eyes. Upon seeing this, the customers must have felt a wave of sympathy and that Christmas spirit that grips us all at one time or another each December, for they lined up and purchased her figurines and walked away beaming, clutching them to their hearts.

Molly herself paid one hundred dollars for a little girl standing over a manger, far more than it was worth. Delia was openly crying now, but the tears were joyful and cleansing. These people seemed so happy to help her and they seemed genuinely to love the pieces from her collection. She thought about how happy Jimmy would be. Her feelings of gratitude left her speechless.

When she counted the money, she had more than one thousand three hundred dollars. Combined with her savings, this was more than enough.

After her sincere thanks and hugs and many Merry Christmases, Delia drove directly to the edge of the industrial section of town to a little store called The Sound Shack. There she confidently purchased a Thorens TD-201 turntable with its space-age shiny acrylic body and all the bells and whistles that Jimmy could want. She knew this was the one because Jimmy always stared at the ad and read the reviews in all of his magazines. She knew this is the one that Jimmy felt was worthy of his record collection. Only a turntable like this could bring out the depth of sound that he craved from his music. She imagined Jimmy hooking it up immediately and then spending precious minutes agonizing on which album he would grant the honor of playing first.

She hurried home hoping to get there before Jimmy returned from work. Relief washed over her when she arrived and saw that his car wasn’t there. Bolting from the car she fumbled with the keys and threw open the door. She ran upstairs and found the giftwrap and matching ribbon.

The wrap was white with red musical notes on a green staff. She had found this paper after last Christmas. It was the original inspiration for buying this gift for him. Her excitement made it difficult to wrap the box. She felt so upbeat and loving. Giving up the figurines didn’t seem so great a sacrifice now. She felt a little embarrassment at how much value she had placed on them.

She spent a few minutes trying to place the gift under the tree so that the light hit it perfectly. She turned on the tree lights and strands of blinking lights on the porch. She wanted the moment to be perfect. It was nearing three o’clock. Surely, Jimmy wouldn’t be working all the way until five today? Why hadn’t he called?

There were no messages from Jimmy. She tried his cell phone and it went straight to voicemail. He was forever forgetting to charge the battery. She paced, brewed some tea, didn’t drink it, tried calling his cell and work phone again and again. Her excitement wore off as an hour passed with her pacing between the bay window and kitchen, holding the phone, hitting redial.

Then, as darkness was settling in, a huge delivery truck pulled into the driveway. She would have to tell them that they had the wrong house. She was pulling on a sweater to go outside when she saw Jimmy’s car pull up to the front curb. He hopped out of the car, hopping and skipping, dancing as he dashed up the front walk ahead of the two deliverymen.

Delia couldn’t fathom what was happening. She stood on the front step as Jimmy rushed up to her and gave her a strong bear hug and a warm kiss.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” he said. Jimmy hadn’t been this wound up since their honeymoon five years ago.

“What is going on, Jimmy? Why is there a truck in the driveway? What on earth did you buy?” A sudden horrifying thought sprang in her head: Jimmy bought a pool table!

But the thing the deliverymen lowered off the back of the truck was not a table. It stood upright, maybe seven or eight feet tall, draped in moving blankets.

“Oh come on, Jimmy, what is it?” she asked.

He wrapped an arm around her waist and said, “Just wait for it, Del.” He flashed a toothy grin that went from green to red and back again in the blinking of the holiday lights.

The deliverymen brought it up the walk and negotiated the stairs with professional ease. Once inside, Jimmy moved a small table, took down the Winslow Homer print, and had them place the thing in the vacated space. Delia followed, bewildered. This wasn’t playing out at all as she had hoped.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Jimmy said to the deliverymen. He handed over a couple of bills for a tip. Jimmy then shooed her into the hall.

“Go ahead and take the blankets,” he called back into the living room. “Thank you and have a Merry Christmas!” he said to the men as they left the house.

“Close your eyes, Del.”

He held her hands and walked her into the living room.

“I can’t hide this from you until tomorrow, baby. Merry Christmas, girl. Open your eyes.”

Delia didn’t understand initially. What was this? Then she staggered mouth agape. Jimmy smiling, beaming held her upright.

Standing before her was an enormous, gorgeous mahogany curio cabinet, complete with serpentine glass and a mirrored back and ornate carving.

Delia was crying again. “Oh my, Jimmy, it’s perfect, it’s wonderful.”

“You love it! I knew you would. Now you’ll have a place to show off all of your little what-knots and knick-knacks. A collection should be seen, Del. In style,” he added with another huge hug and kiss.

“Jimmy, I love you,” Delia said sniffing loudly. She couldn’t bring herself to tell him that she just sold all of her prized collection. She didn’t want to ruin the moment. She would wait. Jimmy could open his present now, too.

“I have my own surprise for you too, sweetness,” Delia said. She pointed to the package under the tree. The gift was indeed perfectly placed. The notes practically leapt off the paper in the lights of the tree.

Jimmy retrieved it, surprised by it’s heft and sat down on the sofa with Delia cuddled in next to him.

“It’s a shame to tear this paper,” he said, but he ripped it open anyway.

He sat completely still, in shock, his hands fallen to the sides of his legs, the Thorens masterpiece of audio engineering sitting in his lap.

Delia couldn’t read his response. “Are you ok? Is it the wrong one?” She began to panic.

“Oh, no, no. It’s absolutely perfect, Del. Absolutely perfect.” He swallowed and licked his suddenly dry lips.

“It’s just that I,” now he faltered. “Del, I, uh.” He took a deep breath and turned to look at her. Their noses almost touched. “I sold my records, baby, to buy the curio cabinet.”

He looked so sad and completely defeated, as if he had failed her in some way.

Delia gave a weak smile as her endless supply of tears continued to stream down her cheeks.

“I sold my knick knacks to buy you this turntable,” she said.

They kissed.

“You know, we’re idiots,” Jimmy said.

“We’re idiots in love,” Delia said.

“It’s a beautiful turntable, Del.”

“We can display it in my curio cabinet, if you’d like.”

“Can I? I’d like that.”

They rubbed noses and smiled at each other.

“You know what I really want for Christmas?”

“No, what is that?”

“Do you remember our honeymoon?”

“Just like it was yesterday.”

“Well, I was thinking…”

They carefully set the turntable on the coffee table.

Then they giggled and kissed some more. Delia had stopped crying.

Then the Grants had a very Merry Christmas.

(with my deepest thanks and apologies to O. Henry)

Toast, don't roast, yourself

There is something that I do a lot. I'm guessing that you do it too, to some extent. I'm talking about having a spontaneous memory. You're not sure what the trigger is, but it pops front and center into your mind.

And it isn't pleasant. In fact, it is usually a memory of when I was deeply embarrassed or exceptionally mean or when I made a foolish choice. These are memories of regrets. Reliving them can really rekindle all the same negative feelings. You think about how stupid you are and how you'll never be able to go back and change it. That mistake, that choice, that behavior is part of you now.

Well, I'm not going to tell you to forget that stuff and forgive yourself. We might get into such weighty subjects at some future date.

Instead I was thinking about our reaction when the opposite happens. I mean when the spontaneous memory is positive. The time you saved someone from hurting themselves or someone else. Or when you came through in the clutch in a game or at work. When you finished that art project. When you successfully installed that shower door. When you felt like a million dollars at that party. When the sunshine and children's giggles make you feel like life is a miracle and you are so glad to be a part of it.

I think these thoughts occur quite often throughout our days. But I don't think that we give them the importance that we give to the negative thoughts. We downplay our good deeds as if we shouldn't feel pride in ourselves. We downplay the good feelings because we think that should be the norm and only negative feelings are the exception.

Most of us are pretty stupid that way. Me included. Sometimes it seems that I would rather dwell and wallow in the bad, that I would rather be cynical and untrusting and doubtful. I don't even want to know why.

I want to focus on (and wallow in, I mean really soak in the hot tub of) good feelings. I would rather be optimistic, upbeat, trusting and hopeful. And when I have one of those spontaneous positive feelings, I'm going to hang on to it and consider it for as long as I can.

And I'm going to feel good about myself and what I can do. I'm going to toast myself and say, "Doug, you're a pretty good guy. I'm glad your here. Keep up the good work."

And as soon as I can get my shoulders loosened from the recent workout, I'm going to pat myself on the back.

Let me know how you would toast yourself. Don't worry about being ironic. Be as cheesy and as Pollyannish as you want. I won't make fun. Because I think you deserve it.

Behind the times: a multi-purpose mixtape post

Amidst all of the physical excitement from yesterday (and due, no doubt to the holiday week) I forgot to update the mixtape. Oops.

We're adding four songs this week:

Jerry Lee Lewis - Great Balls of Fire

Enya - Orinoco Flow

Peter Frampton - Do You Feel Like We Do (live, every mixtape should have a 15 minute song!)

John Denver - The Eagle & the Hawk

Plus, we're going to go ahead and solicit suggestions for the coming week. Please leave your happy songs in the comments. I predict that Monica will be adding the Jonas Brothers this week. I can feel it. I can sense it. Plus, she said she would. I might counter with the Archies just to show her that bubblegum music existed long before she was born.