The History Of Me

Rock-n-Roll

As a child in the early eighties, a few years before Nintendo would release a beautiful magic box that would render all my other recreational activities obsolete, I was in constant search of new and exciting ways to spend my days. Due to this, I thoroughly enjoyed the freedoms of living in a small town during my preteen years. My father alotted me free reign of the town during the day, so long as I stayed out of trouble and was home for lunch. I covered every inch of land within a five mile radius of my home. My brothers and I discovered spectacular abandoned houses, piles of dumped treasure consisting of broken TVs to smash, appliances to take apart, and the elusive Playboy magazine, and uncharted trails that led deep into the outskirts of town.

One of our favorite places to play, however, was a magical anomoly of stones that we, as kids, called “The Rocks.”  The Rocks was, unbeknownst to me at the time, a small plot of land that was owned by a local business owner who sold numerous types of agregrate. The agregrate was simply dumped into separate piles of river rock, sand, pea gravel, And a slew of other types of landscaping material.  Most piles were roughly ten feet tall and maybe thirty feet in diameter, probably a dump truck full.  The river rock pile was usually about three or four loads next to each other.  Of course, for a young kid, these piles seemed massive, and we, not aware that our parents had acquired permission for us to be there, would play on the rock piles for hours on end.  There was a decorative gong near the property that served as a perfect target to test our throwing accuraccy, and a nearby greenhouse that, naturally, was left unlocked, allowing us to explore beautiful flora, and, occasionally, snatch up a plant to play with and ultimately destroy. For the most part, though, we were pretty behaved, but, as we all know, rocks and stones are the most basic of weapons and tools, and, in the hands of kids, can be the basis of many negative experiences.

An example of a not so bad incident would be if a kid, hypethetically, found a dead cat near said rockpile, and, hypethetically decided to find a large scale rock, and, maybe, hypethetically took said rock and smashed said cats head. This, of course, would hypethetically cause said cats eyes to pop out of said cats said head and cause said kid to become extremely grossed out and quickly run from said area.  Hypothetically speaking, of course.

Others were not so harmless. Occasionally a child will do something that, for some reason, seems like an amazing newly discovered feat, and has to be done repeatedly to take in the complete awesomeness that it is. Our personal discovery came when throwing a rock at the back of a garage that shared the same line as the property’s fence. To our amazement, the rock simply passed through the wall, leaving a small hole.  Now, as an adult, I fully understand that the owner of the garage, trying to conserve money while adding walls to his carport, enclosed the structure with rigid foam that is often used as an insulation in buildings, instead of more expensive wood. As a kid, however, we were just amazed that the rock simply passed through the wall, leaving a small hole.  Adding to the situation, the fact that we had a near endless supply of stones, the “wall” didn’t stand a chance.

We pummelled it for multiple minutes, rejoicing each and every time a rock slipped through, not once giving a single thought as to where our projectiles were going on the other side. For all we knew, or cared, there was an alternate universe on the flipside, and we couldn’t be less concerned. Of course, there wasn’t another plane of existence on the other side, as you, Reader, already know, but cars. Classic cars to be more specific. Three restored 1940-ish automobiles that the owner had taken great pride in building up, never thinking that they would be beat to shit by a few ignorant kids who are easily amused.

Somehow we finished the attack without being discovered. It wasn’t until hours later when our dad approached us and began questioning us about what had happened that we finally realized that we had done something wrong. After what seemed like hours long interogating by my father, we miraculously convinced him of our innocence, and the subject was laid to rest at our household. In fact, it’s one of the few things that, even as an adult, I have yet to confess to him.

The Rocks are gone now.  Houses were built on the land a few years ago, destroying all traces of our once grand playground.  Paradise was paved and replaced with two-bedroom homes with attached garages, leaving only memories of the young children who frequently frolicked on it’s soil, but, thanks to this residential expansion, I think we can all agree that the world is a safer place.

Can’t we just put them in a cage for the day?

Contrary to what I was hoping for, I have found myself commuting daily to a location that is as joyous and fun as the world-famous theme park, teeming with thousands of happy visitors adorning caps with large round ears: the Longmont Butterball plant. The facility has been improved a bit from when I posted about it earlier in the year, though, and, as I become increasingly comfortable with their cross- contamination safety protocol, I’m settling in fairly well. Of course, the shitty economy and serious lack of electrical projects makes me hate this project a little less.

In an effort to ease the suffering amongst those of us who are partaking in this brave endeavor to restore life-safety notification appliances, or fire alarm for short, we, as fire alarm guys, or FAGs for short, have unanimously agreed to adjust our schedule into four ten-hour shifts. With this, we are allotted a full three days of turkey-free time off every week. This, I must tell you, is an adjustment that I both enjoy, and am very fortunate to be able to seamlessly accomodate into my life. There was a time when my schedule wasn’t as forgiving and the slightest delay could wreak irreconcilable damage to my way of life and comfort of living.

About a million years ago, way back during the Candleboxian Era, my wife and I decided to make a child. The plan seemed simple enough, and it didn’t take long before our constant perverted fucking produced a beautiful child. We knew that our limited income would make this financially difficult, but we decided that we’d much rather serve our time as young parents than try to deal with asshole kids in an older, decrepit-er state. We had anticipated the added cost of diapers, baby clothes, and formula, and factored it into our budget early on, but we weren’t completely prepared for the toll that daycare was going take on our pocketbook. Childcare facilities were running upwards of 25% of our combined family income, so we, instead, chose to hire someone who offered daycare services from their home.

The first sitter that we found was living in the same apartment complex as us, so it seemed like an obvious choice. She was watching a few other kids and seemed like a very nurturing woman. Her apartment was littered with kid toys and the place had the exact same aura surrounding it as some of the expensive centers that we had previously approached. Aside from having to lug our own baby swing to and from her apartment every day, there didn’t appear to be any problems. After bailing out of work one day, a couple weeks after hiring her, I found myself knocking on her apartment door, unable to get her to open it up. Impatience got the best of me and, finding the door unlocked, I decided to enter. My son was sleeping soundly in his swing, and a plethora of other small kids were playing gleefully. My presence piqued the interest of the oldest, maybe eight years old, girl. She recognized me and informed me that the sitter, who’s fucking name I can’t remember, was doing laundry at the community laundromat. Pissed at her negligence, I gathered my kid and my swing and stormed back to my apartment. It was at least ten minutes before she called me, frantically hoping that it was me who had removed the child from her home.  I fired her ass immediately.

The next one was slightly better. I have to admit that I was slightly swayed from the first day, though. Shelly was a thirty-ish former co-worker of my wife. She was fairly trim, and decent enough looking, that I wasn’t worried at all about the fact that she was still in her nightgown when she answered the door. She was also a parent, and comfortably reached out and took hold of my young infant son. She bounced him on her hip for a minute or two while I introduced myself and tried, unsuccessfully, to not stare at her nipples poking through her gown. Eventually, the fatigue of holding a small child set in and she sat him on the chair next to her, bending down to hold him still, and giving me the perfect view down her nightie. As if it wasn’t difficult enough to look at her face, now I had an unblocked view of her exposed body, from her small little tits, all the way down to her fuzzy little snatch patch! I was sold.

She ended up being a flaky bitch, though. She’d give us less than a days notice when she was unavailable, and sometimes wouldn’t answer the door when I was trying to drop Junior off, claiming later on that she didn’t hear me knock. This, however, didn’t stop her from being extremely picky about drop-off and pick-up times, and i was stressed daily trying to juggle my very-average work hours with her fucked up and demanding “hours of operation.” The cheap bitch wouldn’t accept a check either, so I’d always have to fuck around on Friday afternoons, trying to get my paycheck in the bank, and getting cash out for her.  She also got knocked up, and had a kid, so the few times that she inadvertently allowed me an additional glimpse down her shirt, I was only rewarded with, in all of its deflated balloon glory, a grim look at the ill-effects of a baby’s mouth on a nipple.

These days, the wife has a nice “work from home” gig that all but eliminates scheduling conflicts. I dont worry about snow days, random school closures, or the occasional sick child. I get up and go to work every morning without obstruction. No longer do I have to make that awkward call to the boss, requesting the day off because the sitter has important errands to run. Ten hour shifts? How about twelve? I don’t have any reason to miss work whatsoever. I can show up whenever they need……………… Fuck!

Cute Little Dead Squirrel

The Mrs. and I started going for walks together recently. We’re both part of the over thirty-five club and can’t quite keep our slender figures without making some sort of attempt to stay in shape. While my occupation requires me to spend a vast amount of my workday roaming around, she, unfortunately is tethered to her computer and workstation at the house. Occasionally, she takes a trip downstairs to do some laundry, but, for the most part, she has a busy sedentary job that is very unforgiving when it comes to trying to burn off a few extra calories from a cream cheese covered bagel.

She has been busting my balls forever to accompany her on a brisk daily walk to help her add some exercise to her weight control plan, and, while I do feel for her and her lack of physical activity, my FIVE hour brisk daily walk leaves me feeling completely unexcited about doing it recreationally. I broke down, though, and now we walk and talk for about forty-five minutes a night. It really isn’t too bad, and I probably should have done it with her years ago. Sometimes even, like most recently, you come across a special find while trekking across the suburbs. My particular find came from not money or treasure or even a glimpse of some fresh boobies through a bedroom window, but a squished, flat as a pancake squirrel.
“Special treasure?” You might say. To which I would respond, “You’re motherfuckin’ god-damned right special treasure!”, because I hate them.

I didn’t always. I thought that they were cute just like everybody else. I watched them frolick around at the park while watching the kids play or when having a picnic, and found them quite amusing when I would throw a piece of sandwich near them and watch them stand upright and eat with their delightfully adorable little hands. I treated their kind well and we lived harmoniously together until they drew first blood, by deciding to move into a cozy and spacious man-made tree that I like to call “my house.” Initially, I wasn’t all that worried. I had read that squirrels in the attic will chew on wiring and cause problems, but, being an electrician, I was completely capable of correcting such an issue. Due to this, I procrastinated on removing the rodent for a couple weeks. Eventually, I acquired a live trap, baited it, captured the tresspasser, and released him a few miles away at a park. He was scared, but free to start a new life in a different locale.

The very next day, I patched the small hole in the roof overhang where he had found access into the attic. Life was peaceful for a couple weeks before the familiar echoed scurrying from above intruded upon our Sunday night viewing of Entourage. The night was restless, and I eagerly anticipated getting home from work the following day so I could inspect the attic space and quickly prevent this new squirrel from making a home. Apparantly, my patch job wasn’t adequate, for this particular squirrel was a bit more destructive, and had chewed the small hole out making a bigger, more gaping access hole into my tree home. After searching in the attic for signs of the squirrels presence and finding none, I closed the hole up with more drastic measures. I retrieved some large metal conduit clamps from my work van and fabricated an impenetrable gate across the makeshift entrance. Pleased with myself I cleaned up and commenced my evening lounging time. I was even more pleased when, that evening, the annoying pest made numerous attempts, judging from the furious scrambling noises that we heard outside, to gain entrance and failing miserably. I had won, or so I thought.

We were squirrel free for a few weeks before we got the first whiff of the disgusting odor permeating through our house. It was the familiar smell of rotted meat, and we immediately began interrogating the children about an improperly stashed dinner. They insisted on their innocence, though, and all attempts to uncover unused food came up empty. As the odor became increasingly worse, a conversation with a colleague developed into a reasonable theory. He had previously seen a not so smart squirrel venture into the uncharted sanctity of a plumbing vent. This vertical pipe ultimately finds it’s way into the sewer and serves the purpose of allowing noxious gas from uncountable shits to safely exit from the roof and into the atmosphere. In short, not a good hiding place. With no other explanation, I could only assume that my squirrel must have also chose unwisely and found himself in the unfortunate circumstance of being trapped in a shit tube.

The smell went away, and we were ecstatic to be able to comfortably breath in our house once more. To further dispute any argument that a squirrel had embedded himself in the vent, my wife had the wonderful experience of witnessing an army of maggots escaping from the shower drain in true Poltergeist fashion. While we are positive, at this point, that the skeletal remains of a semi-retarded dead squirrel is now a permanent artifact in our house’s plumbing, we can only hope that it serves as a warning to “all thee rodents who enter here.”

WWWD?

I believe that there is a coming-of-age event that each and every one of us experiences during the course of our lives. The outcome, of which, is completely dependant on the skills of the individual who performs the act. It can lead to joy and happiness or regret and despair. You may do it once and decide that it’s not for you, or you may choose to partake in the deed mere moments after you’ve completed the initial endeavor.

“Drugs?” You ask. No.

“Sex?” Not on this post.

Let’s reminisce. Sit back in your chair, close your eyes, take a deep breath, and take yourself back to the day when you first took shit from a store without paying for it.

I started out with a comic book. Most kids that I knew had a decent enough collection of comics that were merely another form of reading material. I wasnt one of these kids.  During the moments leading up to my larceny era, comics had a hefty price tag of $0.75.  Probably cheaper with a subscription. Unfortunately, during the course of my upbringing, this added cost was not part of the budget. I did, for a single year, recieve a year’s subscription to my beloved pre- Michael Bay, not yet completely fucked up with Shia LeBeouf, Transformers comic book series.  That was a one time only gig, though, and my request for a renewal was denied. Thus, I was required to find alternate means to support my terrible reading habit. I turned into a criminal.

Initially, my shoplifting was limited to something that I really wanted but just couldn’t afford, but it didn’t take long before I was shopping around for things to steal.  There was a Safeway across the street from my sixth grade middle school where, before and after school, I would browse for things that I may or may not have needed.   Comics and magazines made up a large amount of my booty for they were probably the easiest to get away with, but sometimes something else would catch my eye. 

I swiped a Far Side desk calender once. The score seemed easy enough and I hardly thought twice as I crammed the small box into my pants and calmly made my way out of the store. I think the thing was on clearance anyway, so it shouldn’t have even been that big of a deal.  The manager, having somehow suspected my crime, thought otherwise.  This guy was either extremely busy or extremely slow, though, because I had escaped completely across the parking lot when he finally popped out from behind the storefront doors. I heard yelling, and turned to see him pointing and screaming at me.

“What did you take?” he yelled. Now, I’d like to pause for a moment to explain my reaction to this question. I was raised with a complete fear of adults. My father was not the time-out type of guy, so when adults talked, I naturally payed attention and responded. Having been trained as such, I simply held up the calender and showed him. He must’ve sensed my moment of mesmerization and followed up with, “Get over here!”  I actually contemplated it. Fortunately, however, I was able to break my dad’s voodoo spell and run the opposite direction.  Needless to say, I opted to stay away from the grocery store for awhile.

When I finally did return, it was to jack a package of Binaca. This wonderful, banned from school for stupid reasons substance was way out of my price range, but all of the other kids had it, so I needed it as well. Imagine my frustration when I discovered that they were sold out of the sprays and only carried the small dropper bottles. Now, as any seasoned kleptomaniac knows, the smaller the package, the easier it is to hide. This particular item was vaccuum-wrapped against roughly a six inch by four inch piece of cardboard. That had to go. I quickly removed the small bottle, shoved it down my pants, and hurried out, anxious to acquire fresh minty breath. Instead, having somehow unscrewed the bottle cap whilst removing the packaging, I managed to acquire the freshest, mintiest, BURNINGEST dick, this side of the Mississippi.  The effect was terrible, and I ended up ditching school for the rest of the day.

This, unfortunately, didn’t deter me from my life of crime. I had become accustomed to the finer things in life, and a single bad score wasn’t about to scare me away from other jobs. Plus, a Walmart had just been built, and the vast amount of treasures that were calling my name made it impossible for me to stop. My cassette tape collection was growing exponentially with the likes of Slaughter and Ratt and Cinderella.  My SNES collection was growing a little slower, about as fast as the rotation of stock on the bottom hangers inside the plexiglass security case that I could barely reach after prying open the bottom a little.  Speaking of which, the SNES itself was purchased with refunded cash from stolen scientific calculators.

I stole and stole and stole, yet never got caught. It wasn’t until I turned eighteen that the fear of actual jail scared me enough to stop.  The life was over.  I had it all.  Games, music, magazines.  It was all there for the taking. It didn’t matter. Whatever I wanted I just took.  Today everything’s different.  There’s no action. I have to buy things like everybody else. That’s the hardest part.  I’m just an average nobody. I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook.

Little Kitters

I share my life with a few other people. My lovely, sweet, awesome, sometimes bitchy wife, my way cute and way smart diva daughter, and my confrontational and confused teenage son. Very seldom does a day go by that we four aren’t completely entangled in the goings-on within each others individual activities. Like so many other families, however, human companionship alone is not adequate for a satisfying home life, so there are also two lesser life forms that inhabit my home.

Misty is a shy, scared, petite cat that my wife rescued from the shelter. She keeps to herself and is about as completely self-sufficient as a housecat can be. We’ve determined, through her skittish behavior and her constant aversion to people, coupled with the fact that her tail is noticeably shorter than that of every other feline that I’ve ever encountered, that she had been seriously abused before we adopted her. Misty is fairly calm around my wife and I, but she tends to stay hidden and out of site until company is gone and the kids are in bed. She is well taken care of now, but I suspect that the fear instilled in her by mistreatment will stay with her for as long as she is alive.

The second cat, since my wife always insists on having a pair, couldn’t be more opposite. At only a year and a half old, his massive form leaves the pillow backs on our couch in a constant depression. He is a purebred Ragdoll that was born in the confines of a loving breeder and given massive amounts of attention from birth. His experience with pain is limited to a time or two that his paw has been stepped on by accident, and he will readily approach a complete stranger, and possible cat mutilator, in the same carefree manner as he would us. His body, due to his breeding, goes completely limp when handled, and owners of the breed are warned that their lack of a defensive nature is detrimental to survival as a stray in the event that they get out and are lost.

While I’ve grown accustomed to having these furry things always underfoot, I wasn’t always completely accepting of housecats. Of course, one of the main factors that helps contribute to my tolerance of them is the fact that I am a homeowner. The two previous pets that my wife boarded had the unfortunate circumstance of living in a pet-free apartment. This factor put me in the delicate situation of balancing efficient animal training with the desire to have continued residence at low cost rental property.

I will readily admit, at the risk of pissing off the pet-loving population who think that domestic animals are comparable to actual procreated children, that my aptitude to alter instinctive cat behavior was very limited. One of the biggest issues was trying to prevent the cats, Frisky and Cuddles, from lounging in the windows. This behavior, I’m sure, should not normally be frowned upon, as it would seem that all living mammals (and cats) require, a time or two in their lives, to bask in the bright and energy giving sun. Rental lease not permitting, though, I revoked their right to Kal-El’s power-inducing yellow sun, and, instead, forced them to live like Chunk’s dear friend Sloth, in the dark confines of the indoors. As you can imagine, they were not very receptive to this rule.

I found myself having to reprimand them daily, in the form of, I’m sorry to say, a harsh beating. Now, in my defense, I was born in 1974 and there was a completely different approach to teaching animals back then. We didn’t take our animals to trainers or just simply allow them to behave as they see fit. I defy anyone to argue the fact that, back in the day, we were taught to beat an animal’s fucking ass if they acted up. If a dog jumped up on you, you smacked him in the nose, if a cat swiped at your hand and scratched you when you were trying to feed it, you punted it across the room. Animals, I’ve found, are quite resilient to physical pain. I think it’s due to the fact that getting smacked with a rolled up newspaper because you shit on the floor, is in no way as bad as having another larger animal chase you down and eat you.

Ultimately, though, Frisky and Cuddles moved into a house with us and they were able to finally enjoy the sun. I did, however, find myself constantly finding cat piss on a few of our amenities. There was piss on the couch. There was piss on my new leather jacket. There was piss on our clothes in the laundry basket. And, there was piss on my fucking bed. Unfortunately, because I had no possible way of determining which of the two had done it, and because, debatably, the other should have stopped the culprit from following through with their evil deed, they were both recipients of reprimands.

After sixteen years, Frisky became seriously ill and hade to be put down. Cuddles seemed to cope fine, and was, quite possibly, a little relieved as the mystery cat pissing completely stopped and it was suddenly blatantly obvious which one of the two was destroying my furniture and belongings. He lived another couple years, as a behaved and loving companion to my wife, before he too got sick and needed to be euthanized. I didn’t cry for him, although I was seriously choked up by the sadness engulfing the rest of the family, but after he was gone, I did feel quite a bit of guilt for the harsh approach I took to trying to created a well behaved pet.

I think that I would be correct in saying, however, that his sacrifice is much appreciated by the little fuckers that is Misty and Marshmallow (yes, she named the fat cat Marshmallow). I can’t bring myself to lay a hand on them. They scratch the couch, oh well. They sneak out of the house and leave my wife crying for an hour while I go out and ultimately find them cowering in the window well, what’re ya gonna do? They do their thing, I do mine. I am completely tolerant of their behavior because, just like them, I’m a big pussy.

Slacker

Hey everyone.  I just wanted to make a quick post stating that I am, indeed, planning to step up my game on the website.  At present time, I’m working on starting up a company, and it has been very time consuming, exhausting, and detrimental to my creative process.  Since I’m committed to keeping my posts to roughly one-thousand words, it usually ends up taking me well over an hour to write, edit, find a picture, and post.  After a full day’s worth of work and then coming home and dealing with the details of setting up my business, it’s been difficult to get my left brain working effectively.  I will, however, start to make it more of a priority to mentally outline a post during my day, and attempt to post more consistently.  I’ve also received a couple emails and comments, and I’d like to thank you all for taking the time to let me know that my small endeavor is appreciated. 

Thanks, J.

And they lived happily ever after.

My wife likes to take walks in the rain.  I can’t fucking stand that.  Something about being wet in non-swimming attire just drives me nuts.  We recently took the kids to Disneyland, and it seemed as if everyone loves the water rides.  They adore the rides that squirt water at you, drip on you, or just plain drop you into a massive pond of cold, wet water.  Afterwards, they get off the ride, dripping wet, hair soaked and seemingly uncomfortable, yet the lines are miles long to get on them.  I avoid these like the Plague, and my wife consistently teases me for not enjoying them.

I like video games.  I grew up with Mario, Link, and Samus, and love playing such modern gems as Guitar Hero or Half-Life 2.  The old ball and chain hates them.  She doesn’t understand the idea of mashing buttons and fake-shooting aliens and zombies.  Her hand eye coordination sucks, and she claims that the rotating screen and crazy graphics make her physically ill.  Another couple that we regularly hang out with loves to get together, have a few drinks, and waste the night away playing Wii games, and it’s amazing how my wife can go from the tipsy fun-loving party girl to the aggravated can-we-get-out-of-here-now wife, in mere moments after the power button is pressed.

I like KFC, she likes Boston Market.  I constantly require music to soundtrack my day, she looks forward to the listeners calling in and talking to the deejays.  I logically rationalize my way through problems, she throws a tantrum and stresses out.  I put my keys and wallet wherever I happen to be sitting and she has a certain place for every fucking thing she owns.  The list goes on and on.  We’ve been together for over half of out lives now, and we continually joke about how we don’t have a single thing in common.  The time of trying to change each other is long gone, and despite being polar opposite personality types and spending every moment we can together, neither one of us has made a single murder attempt on the other.

I knew that she was very different from me from the moment I met her.  Me, being a little reserved, and attempting to conform to the accepted standards of how people should act, was taken aback when this girl whom I’d never seen walked into my seventh period class, looked at me, and blurted out, “You have gorgeous eyes.” 

I was a shocked but managed to force out a quiet thank you.  She smiled, turned and sat at her desk.  My buddy, Jason, was quick to start teasing me.  Apparently, this girls comment was enough for him to suddenly realize that, he too, thought that my eyes were gorgeous.  Over the next couple weeks, this new girl was quick to gain a bit of notoriety amongst the students of Alamosa High.  Her proclaimed sexual endeavors were a consistent topic during seventh period study hall, and, to this day, I can’t believe that the teacher, Mr. Hall, I think, allowed an underage student of his class to openly discuss performing fellatio.  This particular subject matter ultimately led to my buddy Eric and I assigning her the nickname of “The Nibbler.”

I’m not exactly sure when and how I started communicating with her in a more productive manner, but when it did happen, I was completely infatuated.  We quickly began spending most of our free time together, in and out of school.  We talked on the phone regularly, and went to lunch together all of the time.  Our flourishing relationship moved rapidly and I found myself falling uncontrollably in love with her.  She, on the other hand, was happy to find a friend that she could spend time with.  What a bunch of bullshit.

I sat idly by as she rambled on about the guys that she thought were cute, the guys who she wanted to date, and the guys who she simply wanted to fuck.  I, unfortunately, wasn’t on any of these lists.  She confided in me about her past experiences and regrets, stories that evoked rage and jealousy in my smitten teenage mind.  I listened to her problems and secretly fantasized about the day when I could muster up the courage to make a move on her.  After many months of mental anguish on my part, a situation occurred at my house that resulted in me kissing her. 

She kissed me back momentarily and then, as if coming to the sudden realization of what was happening, suddenly stopped.  I felt the abrupt rigidness of her body, pulled away, and saw the wide open eyes of a startled seventeen year old girl.

“Why did you do that?”  she uttered.

I responded suavely with, “Uhhhh….uhhhh.”

“Why did you do that?”  She repeated, stepping away from me.  I tried to find the right answer, but came up short.  Before I could figure out what was going on, she had made her way out the door, into her car, and had driven off, leaving me standing in front of my house, confused and heartbroken.

I didn’t see her for a couple days after that, and when she finally did show up at school, we pretended that nothing had happened for the better part of the day.  She finally broke up the awkwardness by inquiring about my intentions, and the ensuing discussion resulted in us finally, officially becoming a bona fide couple.  She, to this day, busts my balls about being “sooooo, in love” with her, but, hey, it’s better than being a cold, heartless bitch who left her future husband standing forsaken on the front porch.  Am I right?

Heroes and clowns, holdin’ my ground.

When I first moved to Denver, I was more than a little nervous about city driving.  At eighteen years old, I had been driving for less than a thousand days, so my driving experience, in general, was already minimal.  Include the fact that the worst traffic in my home town of Alamosa, was the moment when multiple cars arrived at a four way stop sign at the same time, and you’re left with a guy who really should have stuck it out in the suburbs for awhile before venturing out into unmarked sectors.  Kids will be kids, though, and one day my brother and I had to mix it up and do a little D-town exploring.

This endeavor started out favorably enough.  He and I, a couple of suave dudes cruising the streets of Denver in a cherry brown 1980 Subaru GL sedan, decided to tour the metropolis that we had recently made our home.  I can still remember the cool breeze blowing through the rolled down windows and the gentle hum of the imported four cylinder engine.  We were overwhelmed with the sheer size of the city and were haphazardly sightseeing, randomly making turns and delving deeper and deeper into unfamiliar territory.  The streets were packed with rush hour commuters, but my brother and I, listlessly looking for jobs, were completely oblivious to the hustle and bustle attitude of the Denver drivers.  In short, we were on a Sunday cruise.

I, being the driver, was making every attempt possible to avoid the highways, since I knew that I would quickly get myself lost if I got off on the wrong exit, so I essentially shit my pants when I accidently turned onto an on-ramp to I-70.  I was heading north on Peoria when I entered the on-ramp, and realized immediately that I needed to change directions.  As I approached the highway, I noticed an intersecting piece of road that, unbeknownst to me at the time, was the on-ramp for the southbound Peoria traffic.  I made a quick judgment call and quickly mashed on the breaks in an effort to make a near impossible left turn that would have, if done successfully, led me directly into oncoming traffic.  Instead, a semi truck, the driver most likely upset with my erratic driving and following way to closely, smashed into the back of my tiny car.

Since I was in the initial stages of making an absurd left turn, the truck clipped the rear left corner of the Suby.  The car went into a spin, and I remember my brother and I bouncing our heads off of each other before coming to a stop in the middle of the road.  We sat in the stalled car for a moment or two, befuddled about the events that had just transpired, before I noticed the truck driver approaching the car.  I stepped out to let him know I was okay and to inspect the damage.  As soon as I got out of the car, however, I could tell that he was not happy with me.  His anger was obvious by the tone in his voice when he asked me, “What the fuck were you doing?” 

I, still a little bit in shock, hadn’t quite thought the situation through enough, and quickly rebutted with, “I was turning around.”

“You can’t turn around!” 

Touché.

It suddenly hit me.  I made a dumbshit turn and caused the accident.  Wait. I made a dumbshit turn, caused the accident, and just admitted it.  And even worse, I made a dumbshit turn, caused the accident, admitted it, and I don’t have car insurance!  Fuck!

A tow truck (shocking!) was the first on the scene.  The driver approached me and my brother immediately and offered to let us sit in his air-conditioned truck.  We accepted.

“What the Hell happened?”

“I didn’t want to get on the highway so I was going to turn and….”

“You can’t turn there.”

“Yeah, I know that now.”

“Well, don’t tell the cops that.  He ran into you, so he’ll get the ticket.  Just don’t say you were turning around.”

“OK.”

That’s how I found myself sitting in the back of a police car with the truck driver, lying to a cop.  The truck driver, angrily, told his part of the story, including my dumb confession, and I recapitulated, cleverly adding, “I was turning my head around to see if there were any cars coming.”  As you can imagine, the truck driver became furious.

“You didn’t say that!  You said that you were turning around!”

“I was turning around…..to see if there were any cars coming,” I said, calmly.

“No!  Look how your car was hit!  You said you where turning around!  Officer, look at the way his car was hit!”

Officer had had enough.  His reprimand was brief but to the point.  He sternly explained that I had the right to slam on my brakes for the most petty of reasons, and that he, being behind me, was responsible for leaving adequate stopping room between us.  For this reason, he would receive a violation for following to closely.  The driver attempted to interrupt, but was shot down quickly by the cop who threatened to write him a ticket for the larger offense of reckless driving.  He bit his tongue and took his medicine.

I also received a ticket; no proof of insurance.  The car was towed to a nearby dealership, and, after the trucking company offered me a check for 1500 dollars, I quickly settled, since he was pushing the insurance thing, and continued to drive the wrecked Subaru after getting insured and having my charges dropped.  The adjuster had also informed me that the truck driver had a poor driving record and had been laid off, something I felt very bad about.  I also felt bad, though, that I didn’t have insurance, ‘cause I coulda got a Hell of a lot more money.

Eat what’s on your plate, or not.

It’s almost time for supper and I am silently despondent about the outcome of our evening meal.  More often than not, my wife ends up extremely upset with my daughter due to her incredibly picky eating habits.  Never before have I been witness to a child so unwilling to consume even the most basic of dishes.  She refuses to eat conventional childhood staples such as mac and cheese, spaghetti, and pizza, and she won’t even touch a hamburger unless it’s dripping with ketchup.  In her defense, my wife and I have very eclectic taste in food, and are constantly attempting new and different cuisines, but, at the same time, we tend to shy away from vegetable-heavy dishes and meals that require uncommon, weird-textured, or gross-looking ingredients.  Her complaints range from being displeased with the level of char on the hotdog, to just simply “not liking it.”  This ongoing argument typically leads to her being lectured by my wife and having to sit at the table until she eats.  While I understand that this is standard punishment for a child who doesn’t eat supper, I can’t help but feel a little bit of sympathy for her.

I was a picky eater myself, granted not to the extent of my daughter.  My parents, even to this day, usually don’t stray too far from their familiar recipes.  These recipes were also mostly devoid of anything but the most basic ingredients.  This type of cooking is a godsend for a young child.  For example, mom’s lasagna consists of noodles, hamburger, cheese, and marinara.  There is no veggies to not like, no ricotta cheese to be grossed out by, and no strange, spicy sausage to hate.  This type of diet lends itself very well to the selective eater, which, by the way, includes my mom, and it encouraged me, as a kid, to avoid new dishes.

When the occasional curve ball was thrown at the dinner table, usually from my fathers request, I found myself in much the same scenario as my poor sweet little girl.  I, refusing to ingest the inedible atrocities that was served to me, had no other choice than to smuggle out said foodstuff.  One of my earliest and most radical attempts was to simply smoosh the food into a liquid.  It seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. I don’t remember the dish entirely but I remember elbow macaroni was the main ingredient.  I started there.  Taking my fork, I repeatedly squashed a few pieces of macaroni.  I suppose, given enough time, that it may, indeed, be possible to mash pasta into a different state of matter, but I was allotted only an hour or so before phase 2 of my dad’s punishment, The Belt, would take effect, and I was forced to find alternate methods of food disposal after about a twenty minutes of squishing.

The paper napkin was a very reliable method, permitting that you had only a small amount of supper to get rid of.  Anything over a handful would draw immediate attention the moment you traversed the exposed area between the kitchen table and the trash can.  Any larger sized food-filled paper napkins needed to be stored in a nearby kitchen cupboard until a more convenient time when you could return and properly dispose of it.  That is, if you didn’t forget.  I can still remember the disgust in my mom’s voice when she found a days-old napkin wrapped piece of chicken.

Sometimes the trash can, due to the lack of other types of garbage that is needed for covering up the food wad, was not the safest means of disposal.  These items were disposed of in “the door.”  “The door” was an unusable door in the old bedroom that me and my brother shared.  When we first moved into the house, this door had been secured shut but not adequately sealed, mostly towards the bottom.  Thus, cold air would consistently blow in during the winter potentially freezing the room’s  occupants.  My mom’s solution to this dilemma was to secure a piece of scrap carpet across the bottom half of the door preventing the breeze from entering.  I know what you’re thinking, and yes, it was fucking ugly, but it worked.  It also created a sort of wall pocket that, based on the topic of this post, I’m sure you can figure out what we decided it could be used for.  I couldn’t even remotely figure how much food made it’s way into that pocket, but, again, I can still remember the disgust in my mother’s voice. 

Occasionally, I’ll see my daughter sneak over to the trash can and discard her dinner, and I pretend not to notice.  My wife asks her if she ate, the child lies, and I take comfort in the fact that, out of all the possible places to put unwanted food, she chose the most accepted.

Shit Creek

My second annual family get-together is here and gone.  I missed a couple days worth of posts due to it, so you, dear reader and possible subscriber, have my sincerest apologies.  I can’t honestly say, however, that I was giving much of shit as I was pounding beers around a campfire nestled conveniently between the 3000+ square foot vacation cabin that we rented, and the small creek only a stones throw away from the front door.  This dwelling was home to fifteen of us for three wonderful away-from-work days. 

My parents decided last year to quasi-camp on a yearly basis.  Their inspiration stemmed from the once a year family hunting trip that my parents regularly attended when I was young.  The week long gathering consisted of my grandparents, parents, brothers, cousins, aunts, and uncles, and was a much anticipated occasion by all involved.  Our amenities were a little less extravagant, though, taking up shelter in pop-up campers, and travel trailers.  My grandfather had somehow acquired an old school bus that had been modified with all of the options of a camper, however, it still retained the school bus colors, lights, wording, and the characteristic side mounted stop sign.  The first course of action upon arriving at the camp site was to construct the crude lavatory that had been invented by my uncle.  The makeshift toilet, consisting of a wood chair and a toilet seat, was placed over a three or four foot hole, and a stall, built from custom poles and a blue tarp, was assembled around it.  This type of luxury, my friends, is what separates you from the rest of the crowd when it comes to camping.

While the parents were hard at work putting together the latrine, us kids, would quickly make our way down to the adjacent creek.  This creek would serve to be our playground for the majority of the time we were there.  Years later, as my son, daughter, nephews, and nieces were playing around at a similar creek, I found myself consistently having to protect their right to do this, amidst the nervous, overprotecting adults.  My daughter ended up slipping and falling into the twelve foot wide creek, and I was harshly reprimanded by my parents for having supported the children’s cause.  Obviously, my parents had forgotten about the many hours of unsupervised creek time that their children had logged during the hunting trips.  We, as kids, fell in plenty of times, and, routinely attempted increasingly difficult crossings.  I stand by my choice to let them play, knowing full well that kids are not completely naive to the fact that a running stream does impose a fair amount of danger and that certain precautions are necessary.  If, contrary to what I believe, a child does not understand this, and finds himself or herself struggling to stay afloat while jaunting downstream against their will, I can only assume that they are not trying hard enough to stay alive and will, most likely, end up causing their demise in some other reckless fashion.  Needless to say, my daughter survived with a small scratch and some wet clothes.

Us kids were also avid climbers.  We simply climbed until we were tired.  I would dare say that we would trek a few thousand feet up the mountainside.  One trip we found ourselves incarcerated in the trailer after the parents, while sitting around the campsite, noticed their seeming miniscule children high atop a mountain peak, jumping and cheering.  I was told by my mom that a similar attempt was made by a few of the adults the next day.  The hike resulted in failure, with the grown-ups turning around less than halfway up.

Once, my younger brother threw a stick at a bird.  The twenty-five foot throw was amazingly accurate, and the fowl found it’s unfortunate death at the hands of a twelve year old kid with a lucky throw.  The humor of the situation was replaced almost immediately with sheer panic as we came to the realization that the discovery of the corpse would ultimately incriminate us and Dad would bust our asses.  We hastily kicked the dead bird down the hill next to the creek.  We considered throwing the carcass in, but could not convince ourselves that it wouldn’t get caught on a tree or a rock and be spotted further down the creek, so we concluded that throwing a large rock over it was the best coarse of action.  Our cover up was successful and our crime was never uncovered.

Another time, while adventuring further down the stream than any others before me, I discovered an amazing landmark that I immediately dubbed, with my namesake, as Jacob Falls.  I haven’t seen the falls, a small narrowing of the creek with a few large rocks creating a small edge for the water to fall down through, as an adult, but I’m told by my cousins that it is less than spectacular.  As a kid, though, I remember the falls as being nothing short of magnificent.  I slipped off one of the large rocks once, and experienced the slow-motion last moments of life event that you hear about, only to find myself knee deep in slow moving current.  Like my daughter after me, I lived.

There was anywhere from eight to twelve of us kids running around that stream and none of us ever died.  I honestly believe that these occurrences help teach children about danger and common sense.  I’m glad my daughter fell in.  She respects the river more now, and understands that water + rocks = slippery.  She’ll log this survival technique next to fire = hot, and it will, hopefully, make her able to endure more hardships in life.  Hopefully my logic is sound on this topic and my kids survive their childhood antics, otherwise, the wife is going to way pissed at me.