The Psychology of Dating
Thursday, November 12th, 2009 | dating | 8 comments
I went out with my 8-year-old nephew’s 2nd grade teacher this last Saturday. Almost beats the time I was setup with my brother’s adopted son’s birth-grandmother’s niece. On a related note, it seems like I’ve dated a good number of teachers and dental hygienists/assistants these past few years. I wonder what Freud would say about that…
You’re a Great American, Simon Cowell
Wednesday, November 4th, 2009 | vacation | 14 comments
Below you will find a collaborative MadLib account of the adventures Kellen and I had in Pennsylvania this week. The following is a true story (or at least was, until Kellen got his hands on it):
Having found myself in a need to use up some paid time off before the year ended, I begged for a plane ticket and flew out to the Show-Me State to spend some time with Kellen & Rachel.
To start the fun off, Kellen and I played a round of Disc Golf on the 2005 Pro World’s Course. (Yes, I vacation with my Disc Golf Discs). It was horrific, albeit tranquil, with natural hazards of alien invasions and poetry readings. We tied after 3.14 holes. We then toured Kellen’s secret society before returning to his house on Duh Drive (Kellen is famous for choosing his places of residence solely based on proximity to jewelry repair shops). There we watched game one of the illegal hamster fighting match between the New York Humphrey Bogarts and Philadelphia Eye-Gougers. The team I was told I was rooting for won.
Thursday we headed into Philadelphia, where we experienced various national treasures such as Pat’s Philly hole in the road, and The Mint. I ate my shredded shoelaces wit caviar and cheese-whiz and only slightly in fear for my life. At the Mint (where they make unisex fedoras) we went on a self-guided tour and learned about the enigmatic world of numismatry via impressive human statues, and state-of-the-art displays. It was here that Kellen experienced extreme wonderment and sheer awesomeness as he found out it was in fact Martha Stewart in a Winston Churchill Halloween costume, not President Truman on the dime.
Having been spiritually fed at the Mint, we decided it was time to give something back to fellow humanoids by setting the record straight on an age-old historical mystery, specifically, is the sun rising or setting on the famous chair found in Cowabunga! Hall? After lamenting for a time with our Finnish tour guide we concluded that really there were two possibilities. Either a) as Kellen proposed, the sun was really in eclipse, or b) that since the Continental Congress was meeting in a rented hall, it was probably a furnished hall, with an average chair purchased from an average vendor, and really had no connection to the important events that took place there, i.e., the signing of our Captain Kirk’s two most important documents, the Weekend at Bernies: 2 screenplay and the Greendale Elementary’s fire safety plan and, therefore, is really a moot point. You’re strangely out of place, America.
Additional highlights included visiting Christ’s Church, where we played rugby in the pew of our Nation’s first President, Simon Cowell and heading to some other building where we saw the Liberty nose cazoo. Oh yeah, and we played Killer Bunnies, which was voted as the most immoral, illegal, and illogical card game since the invention of Death Ray Level 6: The Siege of Planet Voklon: Phase 10 Edition.
All in all it was a surprisingly malfeasant trip, even when you throw in the fact that my flight out of the Andromeda Galaxy was delayed 12 parsecs, causing me to miss my connecting flight out of Rock Springs, WY, and forcing me to spend Halloween night (plus the extra hour thanks to Daylight Savings) in an underwater dungeon that for some reason was also on fire before finally flying home to Salt Lake, some 15 hours late!
The Blog Turns One
Tuesday, September 29th, 2009 | freedom of speech, spite, sweaters | 23 comments
I never thought this day would come: My little blog celebrated a year in the life today. I’m so proud. In celebration of this important milestone I decided it was time for a new look, so out with the red, and in with the blue. Whose idea was red anyway? Pfft. Red hasn’t been fashionable since I wowed the girls in my preschool class with this sweater.
In addition to the new appearance I also opted for a new name, half because I was growing weary of Truthiness and half to spite all those blogspot bloggers who have to marry themselves to the titles of the blogs. A beautiful thing is spite.
Welcome to Tongue-in-Cheek, a place where I can say just about anything I want without fear of repercussions because, hey, it’s tongue-in-cheek.
Happy birthday, blog. Many happy returns.
How do you measure Awesome?
Wednesday, September 23rd, 2009 | my way is better, weights & mesures | 7 comments
Having spent the morning pouring over the venerable pages of Wikipedia, I’ve come to a shocking revelation: our measuring system stinks. Take, for example, the measure known as the hogshead. Not only is this a macabre benchmark, but it is a completely random value, being equal to (I’m not making this up) 6 firkins, 3 1/2 rundlets, or a round 63 gallons. 63! Who came up with this stuff? Not much better is the meter, which, over the years has had several definitions, my favorite being “the distance, at 0° Celsius, between the axes of the two central lines marked on the prototype bar of platinum-iridium, this bar being subject to one standard atmosphere of pressure and supported on two cylinders of at least one centimetre diameter, symmetrically placed in the same horizontal plane at a distance of 571 millimetres from each other”. How could I ever be expected to bring children into a world with such arbitrary, ridiculous, French-based standards of measurement? They didn’t even spell centimeter right.
Thus, after spending the majority of the last five minutes in painstaking thought, I’ve decided it’s time for a new, non-French standard. Gone are the days of drinking milk by the gallon, running miles, or buying sour patch kids by the pound. It’s time to move on. I therefore propose a new system: a combination of the choicest maritime & aeronautical measurements (knots, leagues, fathoms, carry-on bags), underappreciated measurement of years past (fortnight, cubits, jiggers, pecks), and some new additions among which are the following:
jiffy - the amount of time it takes me to get there, i.e, “I’ll be there in a jiffy.”
cows - a measure of weight, being approximately equal to one pound of melted down platinum-iridium bar. This measure being so named as to have the intended effect that as people reflect on their own weight (e.g., 168 cows), obesity levels will plunge.
twit - defined as the length of a stalk of grass 1 week following a good mowing.
swig - meaning, the amount of milk I can safely hold in my mouth while hearing a funny joke without it coming out my nose.
Lastly, in honor of the late Douglas Adams, his own measurement, the sheppey, will be adopted, this being defined as the closest distance at which sheep remain picturesqe (approx 7/8 mile or, more precisely, 18,267 twits).
Start lobbying your politicians, we’ve got to make these changes quick.
My kids will be here in a jiffy.
Headache
Thursday, August 27th, 2009 | headshot | 11 comments
Had a few extra holes carved into my cranium today courtesy of my dermatologist. It’s a surreal experience to hear the scrape of scalpel on skull from the inside of your head. It almost beats the smell of your own burning flesh as he cauterizes the wound.
And you thought I gave myself bad haircuts…
Cougar Convert
Saturday, August 22nd, 2009 | bribery, byu, Family | 11 comments
Last weekend marked the 2nd annual sleepover between my oldest sister’s three boys (Jacob-14, Jordy-8, & James-4) and their favorite Uncle Rob. I use the term favorite, but really the sleepover is an important factor in keeping me in the running for favorite uncledom as I don’t have (1) a 7.1 digital surround sound theater with X-box like their Uncle Steve or (2) a dog like their Uncle Levi. Rather, what I lack in state-of-the-art technology and canines I have to make up for in letting the kids do whatever they want—as any true favorite uncle would.
Unfortunately the kids were a bit late getting dropped off so we didn’t get to do too much (such as enlisting James’ cuteness factor to help me score a few extra dates) but we still managed to have fun playing games, eating food, and watching a movie. The highlight of the sleepover, however, (besides making James feel better about having to wear a diaper to bed by telling him my roommate Brock did too) was building some goodwill between the kids—who are being raised to be staunch Ute fans—and BYU. I’m not sure if it was due to my favorite uncle status, mind-boggling persuasive powers, or simply the undeniable logic of my position, but by the end of the sleepover little four-year-old James had become a true-blue BYU cougar. (Yes, thats right: I have what it takes to convince a four-year-old.) Jacob and Jordy nobly—if not misguidedly—attempted to stop any pictures from being taken of their little brother with BYU paraphernalia but he quite-of-his-own-free-will wrapped up in our BYU blanket as we snapped a quick photo.
I was a bit skeptical whether the change would last once he got home back into Ute territory, but I couldn’t have been prouder when his dad tried to get him to say “BYU stinks like poo” and he refused. And just when I thought the kid couldn’t get any cuter…
Now That’s Quality Television…
Wednesday, July 29th, 2009 | fame & glory, opinions | 16 comments
There I was, minding my own business when my friend Shawn texted me with an important business proposition (all important business transactions are done via text message these days—in fact the current proposed 1000+ page Health Care bill was originally submitted as a series of 15,172 text messages). “Would you be willing to do a TV interview?” he asked. Now, to the average Joe, this might seem like an off-the-wall question, but when you’re as famous as I am these TV spots are a regular thing. My television debut happened at the ripe age of seven when I was featured during the closing credits of the local news fishing on free fishing day (I caught a carp, which sadly was not caught on tape—I used worms). That experience was followed a mere 10 years later by my very own commercial wherein I recited a poem I had written for a contest/school assignment commemorating the likeliest of subjects: “Black History Month”.
My response, naturally, was to promptly forget about the text. In fact, I’m pretty sure I forgot about Shawn entirely there for a few days… I’m sure I was doing something highly important at the time, like signing autographs or participating in a celebrity charity fund-raiser. No, really, I was more likely than not getting ready for a round of disc golf and I can’t exactly let myself get distracted from my game, otherwise it throws of my groove and then Tyler beats me, and we can’t have that happening, now can we?
So we golfed. And I’m sure I won. And I forgot about said TV interview. Then a week-or-so later I ran into Shawn and he again asked about my willingness to be interviewed. Turns out Shawn works for a local cable provider and has the responsibility of coming up with programs they can air on one of their stations. He came up with this idea for a show where they interview, as Shawn put it, “important, influential locals…” he paused, looking for the right words, and I started to feel highly flattered/important/influential, as he continued, “…and really really opinionated people.” Suddenly it all makes a little more sense. And so I, slightly-dejected/highly-opinionated/non-imporant-or-influential Rob Martin took the gig.
The day of the interview came and we talked about really exciting topics including the recession, independence, and old people. Sadly, though, we didn’t even get into topics I felt particularly opinionated about. Topics like: my shipping container dream home, library book detectors, or Poland. Still, it’s a start. I’m sure my public will be pleased.
The Summer of Eventful Summer Events
Saturday, July 4th, 2009 | athletic prowess, dating, food, investing | 9 comments
Do you ever get that feeling that there’s never enough going on? That you wish you had more to keep you occupied? Yeah, me neither. It’s been an eventful summer. A busy summer, but good busy. Here’s a taste of whats been going on:
- Playing Frisbee Golf (every Saturday and often once or twice during the week as well)
- Taking advantage of the bear market
- Being told by a grumpy old man “You give me heartburn.”
- Star Trek (One of the best movies I’ve seen in the theater)
- This. →
- Receiving a not-so-subtle gift from my mother: “Dating for Dummies” (thanks, mom!)
- Tinfoil dinners, shish kebabs, grilled corn, and dutch oven peach cobbler
- The end of a drought
- Suddenly becoming self-conscious of my bottom lip
- Curry
- Playing Oregon Trail with my Barium-drinking friend and only losing one of her children to the eagles
- Camping with Kellendric
I just pulled out the calendar and scheduled out the rest of my summer months. There are plenty more adventures to come…
hopefully more heartburn too
Vacationeering in Grand Canyon Style
Monday, June 15th, 2009 | composting, cute, lima beans, lost, refugees, vacation | 9 comments
Sometimes you just have to get away from the stresses of life—the daily grind of work, snoring roommates, the multitudes of adoring fans—and work on your chaco tan. Last week was just such a time and so I headed down to Havasupai with some friends, acquaintances, and complete strangers for a long-needed chaco vacation.
Havasupai (literally translated: “you hiked all that way for this?!?”) is an Indian Reservation in the Grand Canyon that bears the designation of being the only place in the US where they deliver the mail by way of mule train. This might mean something if it weren’t for the helicopter that makes 20+ runs daily into the village. Apparently using the mules for their mail transit is more a matter of principle than practicality (by principle I, too, prefer my postcards to smell of hairy beasts of burden).
Getting to the trailhead meant driving through Boulder City where my parents live and where we stopped for a church/food break. (True story: In navigating us to my parents house I was near flawless. That is to say, I got us all the way there only to incorrectly identify the next-door neighbor’s house as that of my mom and dad. In my defense though my dad had parked his very distinguished van next-door so it wasn’t really a fair test …and my parents say I don’t visit often enough… pfft) Leaving Boulder City we crossed Hoover Dam while listening to the Transformers soundtrack and looking in awe at the bridge they are building there. I was driving the lead vehicle by this point and happened to look in the rear-view mirror as we were coming within sight of the bridge just in time to see Jessie who was driving the second car as her eyes got really big and she mouthed the unmistakable words: “That is SO COOL!”.
Monday morning we hiked in. I was wearing my backless chaco zongs (scandalous, I know) and they held up beautifully. Supai village was just as I remembered it, with no signs of the ravaging flash-flood that had swept through last year. This was not the case when it came to the campground, however. Almost all of the trees were gone, leaving most of the campsites with very little privacy. It was kinda like a refugee camp, complete with people lining up at the one fresh water source to fill up. Annie says I need to be more positive on my blog though so I will say this, I am SURE it was just like a refugee camp. No, really though, it was a… um… really NICE refugee camp. Anyway, we kept hiking to the far end of the campground where the trees seemed to be less disturbed and were fortunate to find an isolated spot to set camp.
I mentioned the village was just as I remembered it. This was actually my second trip to Havasupai. On my first we spent a good deal of our time discussing how filling Taco Bell Chicken Quesadillas were (answer: surprisingly filling) and guessing the letters on overturned scrabble tiles two at a time: “L & X?” “Nope, E & F” “Um… R & M?” “Close, V & H”. Fortunately we had much more important items on the agenda this time… like learning the correct usage of the term “cute”. I never realized before this trip how much meaning such a small word can contain. For example, If Girl A is talking about Girl B and she says, “She is so cute” she is really saying Girl B is her good friend. This, however, shouldn’t be confused with “She is SO CUTE” (translation: “She is probably the nicest person I know”) and DEFINITELY does not mean the same thing as “She is so CUTE” (literally: “She has the personality of a lima bean”). 
Other highlights included hiding our supreme jealousy as we made fun of Jessie & Annie for bringing 3” thick sleeping pads (click their names to read their highly-biased accounts of the trip), learning about the art (yes, it is an art) of composting, and helping Annie to like—or at least to not be so uncomfortable with—physical touch.
All in all, it was a good trip, but as good as it is to get away from it all it’s always good to come home
…so long as I can find it.
Rob’s Love Issues Explained
Tuesday, April 7th, 2009 | books, felines, love, words | 10 comments
Through the years the world has seen its fair share of individuals who have ventured to teach us about love: from John Lennon to Dr. Laura, Tom Hanks to Meg Ryan, Miracle Max to …Yoda? That’s right, Yoda. Little, furry, big-eared Yoda. Lest you unjustly label me with some uncalled for name-calling lets set the record straight: I am not some Star Wars Geek. I’m really a much bigger geek than that. You know, the kind that wears sock-suspenders and not-so-secretly wants to live in a shipping container (it’s the new tuffshed). No, really, Star Wars has nothing to do with this. Yoda was my cat.
We got Yoda when I was just a little tyke. I don’t remember being a part of the naming process but Martin family lore holds that we named the cat Yoda because he was ugly, balding on the ears, and resembled the Jedi Master himself. Ugly or not, I loved that cat. I’d nicely pet him, he’d nuzzle up next to me, and sit on my lap. We’d even nap together as documented by this undisputed photographic proof (which also doubles as evidence of what a cute kid I was).
Years later I read a book called The Five Love Languages. The premise of the book is that there are different love languages (quality time, words of affirmation, gift giving, acts of service, and physical touch) and we each have our own preferred language in which we both “speak” our love and “hear” love being communicated to us. The book further claims that many problems in relationships are the result of a couple not speaking each others’ love language. While this definitely falls under the category of pseudo-psychology it’s a theory that I accept as it is one that makes a lot of sense.
Reading the book it didn’t take me long to figure out I was a physical touch guy. The book says you can usually trace your love language to your childhood but when asked my mom she says she didn’t remember me being particularly touchy/cuddly. And then it hit me: Yoda. I learned my love language from the cat.
Somehow I always end up dating girls who have ridiculous love languages like words of affirmation. Words. Pfft. I don’t do words. Maybe that explains my stellar luck in relationships thus far in life. After reading The Five Love Languages, though, I’m confident I’ll be able to work through any differences in love languages I have with the girls I date…
…providing they have a cat, of course.
