Far away from the memories of the people who care if I live or die

The other day I went to a sandwich shop hoping to get my favorite sandwich of theirs: Vegetarian Salami.

"They make vegetarian salami?" you say? The answer to your question, gentle reader, is yes. Yes they do. You're probably thinking that vegetarian salami sounds disgusting, because it does, and if you were to see it you would probably think it looks disgusting, because it does, but believe me, gentle reader, it is a very delicious soy representation of an otherwise unhealthy lunch meat that only tastes slightly more delicious when in its "natural" state, but also kills you slowly. (Can you say longest run-on sentence ever?)

Imagine my dismay then, gentle reader, when upon approaching the counter I could no longer see the vegetarian salami sandwich on the menu. I asked the man behind the counter about it and he told me that he was sorry, but that it had been discontinued. Why someone would "discontinue" a lunch meat that's not really meat is beyond me*, but my precious vegetarian salami has been replaced with vegetarian ham.

I know what you're thinking, gentle reader, and that is, "Why didn't he just order the vegetarian ham instead?" Well, I'll tell you why. It's because I have a long, sordid history with ham.**

As a child I never liked ham. There was just something about it that made me recoil and shudder every time I tasted it. Every. Single. Time. Well, one night, when I was five or six, my dear sweet mother prepared ham for dinner. I whined and complained about having to eat it, as five or six year olds are wont to do, all to no avail as I was told to be quiet and eat. I did, but not for long. I took my first bite of ham, recoiled and shuddered (as I knew I would), but that wasn't all. No, at the time when the shuddering would normally have stopped, I felt a little lurch in my stomach, and knew that I had to make a mad dash toward the bathroom. I didn't make it. We're talking projectile vomiting all the way down the hallway.

I have to say, one of the biggest problems with projectile vomiting is that the vomit travels a long distance in front of the vomiter. So, as I was running down the hall, I stepped in a puddle of my own vomit, then slipped and fell. I vomited some more as I tried to get up, stepped into that, and slipped and fell again. After a couple of tries I was able to find my way into the bathroom and finish emptying my stomach. My parents, thinking that I was over-acting so as to get out of eating my dinner, lacked sympathy. They made me clean up the mess, which had little chunks of ham spread throughout.

(I want you to stop for a minute and just imagine the smell of ham mixed with bile so that you can experience the trauma of the situation.)

Once I finished cleaning up the mess, my parents made me sit back at the table and finish my meal. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, choking down those last few chunks of ham, but I persisted. That doesn't mean I'm eager to repeat the experience with a veggie ham sandwich.***




* Not really. I'm sure I'm the only person who ever bought it.

** It's really because I wanted to try the vegetarian turkey instead.

*** Actually, I do like ham now, despite all childhood trauma associated with it. I'll probably give the veggie ham sandwich a try next time I'm there.

They'd never make a movie if everything was great

In case you're interested, here's the story of how I came into this world. (If you're not, you don't need to read the rest of this because it has to do with the last part of the story.)

When I was in Kindergarten, we would always form two lines to go to recess. I remember one day the lines were made up of those who had flown before, and those who hadn't. The ones who had flown got to leave the room first*. I didn't know the last part of the story then (the part where I'd flown on life flight on the very first day of my life). To think, had I known that, I could have made it to the playground about 30 seconds sooner that day.

I remember telling my mom about it when I got home from school that day. She told me the story then. I remember being upset that I could have been in the first line after all. Oh, missed opportunities.




* As if they weren't already privileged enough!

Mom leans down and says, "My sentiments exactly."

In case you live in a cave (in which case you probably don't have internet access, so this statement doesn't make any sense and should have been deleted), it's Mother's Day.

Pretty much all I have to do is exist in order for my mom to have a fabulous day, but I sent her a gift anyway.

I know that not everyone has the benefit of a mother's unconditional love which allows gift giving on Mother's Day to be optional. I also realize that not every child remembers when Mother's Day is, or has the money to purchase gifts. If any of you fall under this category, well friends, today's your lucky day! I've created a coupon that you can download and give to your mother at no cost to you.

Please note that your mother may use the coupon to call your brother if you are not, in fact, her favorite son. If such is the case, I would offer you my condolences, but being my mother's favorite son and all, I really don't know how you feel. I recommend you get a good therapist.

Kielbasa sausage your butt cheeks is warm

When I woke up this morning everyone in the house was already awake. My parents were on their way to church, but before they left the house my dad pulled a small container out of the refrigerator and showed it to me.

Him: If you're hungry, just take a few of these sausage links and throw them in the microwave. Thirty seconds and they'll be perfect (obviously he doesn't know that I'd put them in for 33).

Me: Ok, I probably will in a little bit. I'm not really that hungry right now.

Him: Well, you should feel good. I don't normally show my sausage to people.

Me: And for that we all thank you.

What's that blue thing doing here?

My mother used to have a saying she would use any time she was annoyed with our efforts to help around the house (or lack thereof). Come to think of it, that was most of the time.

No matter what the situation was, her response was always the same. If she walked into the bathroom and the toilet was unflushed? If the kitchen garbage was filled to overflowing? When she found the empty bowls of ice cream my brother had left under his bed? If someone stepped in dog crap and tracked it into the house without cleaning it up?

She'd look at the mess and say, "Now that is what I call the height of laziness."

I wonder what she'd say if I told her that when I reheat things in the microwave I do it for a minute and eleven seconds rather than a minute because I don't want to take the time to move my finger over to the zero.

He put his arm around me and he said, "Son, I was all that when I was young."

I have the best parents that anybody could ask for. I made a list of a few of the cool things about my mom, and being as today is Father's Day thought I would do the same for my dad.

• The man has a green thumb. He took pride in having the greenest (and most weed free) lawn on the block. He also ends up with an extremely productive garden every year, and has house plants that are as old as I am.
• He's one of the hardest working people I know, always makes sure that the job is done right regardless of how much extra time it will take, and this has instilled a good work ethic in us.
• He'd take us fishing, and spend most of his time going back and forth between kids, taking care of our tangles and such, and forgoing his opportunity to fish as he did so. Anyone who has ever tried to fish with kids realizes how annoying this can be.
• I don't think enough can be said about all the drives we'd take in the mountains. As I got older I realized they were often work related for him, but the fact that he wanted his family to come along speaks volumes.
• I still have to call him for diagnostic advice when I have car troubles, and he's always right.
• Pinewood derby cars - we may not have always taken first place in the race, but we always had a cool looking car.
• He taught me how to shoot. It's not a skill I use regularly, but I can still hit a Christmas tree ornament from a fair distance at the shooting range.
• During hunting season he would take us out with him on weekends, and evenings, to help him watch for deer. I don't think we were much help, but he made us feel like he couldn't do it without us.
• How many fathers would sing lullabies while they rock their babies (and grandbabies) to sleep?
• Gave me some extra money when he found out that my friends and I were taking our prom dates skiing, just in case I needed it. It turned out that I did when the bindings on the skis I had broke and I had to rent some instead. And being the young punk that I was, I don't think I ever thanked him properly for that, so thanks Dad.

Happy Father's Day. I love you.

My mom is better than your mom

I wanted to say something nice about my mom for Mother's Day. But really, how can words describe how grateful I am for the countless sacrifices my mom had to make on my behalf? At any rate, here is a list of some of the awesome things my mom has done for me, it's not exhaustive by any means, but ought to give you a picture for what growing up with her was like.

• Home cooked meals every single night. Need I say more?
• Everyone knows that when she says "I'll tell you what I'm going to do" it means there's a treat in store.
• On rainy days when we couldn't go outside and play she would break out the dyed macaroni and let us do arts and crafts, or would cut eyeholes out of paper plates and let us color on them to make ourselves a mask.
• Came to the rescue the day when I was crying because I couldn't get my boots on. It turned out to be because a mouse had built its nest in the toe.
• Spotted me the remaining cash I needed to buy a mountain bike, even though it went against everything she stood for with regards to going into debt.
• Allowed me to take her car any time I wanted it, even though I'm sure the amount of gas I put in paled in comparison to the amount I burned.
• She always put fruit in our lunches so we could have something to race down the irrigation ditch on our way to school (ok, so that might not have been her intent, but it was still a lot of fun).
• Never said one word to me about my earring when I pierced my ear without her permission, even though I was still under age (I would have taken it out too, but too late now).
• Babysat my daughter for free for the first 8 months of her life. She would have continued to do so if we hadn't moved away to go to school.
• She set up her own form of summer school for us. She'd teach us things for a half hour or so every morning before letting us leave the house to go play because she didn't want our minds to go stale. Maybe that's why I'm now a perpetual student. On second thought, damn you Mother!
• She allowed me to live on the night when she baked cookies, put us to bed, went across the street to play volleyball with her friends, then came back with her friends to enjoy some cookies only to come in and find every single one of them on the kitchen floor with a bite or two taken out and me urinating on them while my brothers cheered me on.
• Every year there was a unique cake for us on our birthday. The one that sticks out in my mind is the year I turned 10. The Gremlins was in theaters, and I was fascinated by the Mogwai (I even believed my friend when he told me that his pet guinea pig was one, how dumb was I?). She made me a cake that looked like Gizmo.

Thanks Mom!

Smells like pisnash, . . . smisnash, . . . POT ROAST!!! With green gravy.

I was walking by the library yesterday when I caught a familiar aroma from my childhood - freshly lit Marlboro Reds. I don't smoke, nor do I like the smell of cigarette smoke (especially when it gets on my clothes or hair), but I do like the smell of a fresh burning Marlboro. It's the only brand I like the smell of, and only when it's still burning, I hate all the rest. I'm pretty sure that's because Marlboro was the brand my dad smoked when I was growing up, so I have memories associated with that smell (it's well documented that olfaction has significant ties to memory - it's how migrating salmon are able to get back to their rearing grounds to spawn - just had to throw that in cuz I'm a nerd).

My mom didn't approve of my dad's smoking habit, so he never smoked in the house, or anywhere around her for that matter. However, he didn't have any reservations about lighting up in front of us when she wasn't around. Almost every time I smell Marlboro Reds it reminds me of driving through the mountains with my dad because that's usually where we spent the most time without my mom around.

I got thinking about the other odors that remind me of things from my youth. Here's a list of a few that I came up with. I'm interested in seeing if others have the same ones (my guess is probably not, unless you're related to me, or crazy).

• Bubble gum reminds me of Little League and the bubble gum flavored ice cream we used to be able to get at Coaches Gallery (an arcade that really did have a typo in the name), or the feeling of opening up a new package of baseball cards (or Return of the Jedi cards - convinced I'm a nerd yet? Keep reading).
• Cooking roast beef always reminds me of Sundays around the house - my mom would have that in the crock pot for Sunday dinner at least once a month.
• Freshly cut grass reminds me of my summer spent mowing lawns (what else?).
• Motor oil and grease reminds me of my oldest brother and his friends who were always tinkering with their cars. Oddly enough, so does the smell of burning rubber.
• The smell of soil reminds me of weeding the garden with my brothers and sisters - that or my first job, which was picking rocks out of a farmer's field for a whopping $2 per hour the summer between 3rd and 4th grades (child labor laws be damned).
• Exhaust from a weed eater or similar piece of equipment always reminds me of cutting firewood with my parents .
• The smell of wood smoke reminds me of cold winter days.
• The smell of dandelions reminds me of playing with my brothers and sisters at the park - we used to rub them on our arms to make them yellow.
• The coppery smell of blood reminds me of my job cleaning a meat packing plant (ok, that's one I don't smell too often any more - thank goodness).
• The smell of rotten milk and mildew reminds me of living with my ex-wife (wait, that wasn't my childhood, but it's basically the smell of a sink full of dishes that have been sitting for a while, and sadly enough, really does remind me of her).
• The smell of chlorine reminds me of when we were bad and my mom used to pour bleach on our eyes (ok fine, I made that up - how about swimming at the pool?).

My Mama Always Said . . .

I grew up in a religious atmosphere, and some of the things my parents taught me still stick. Apparently the part about always telling the truth isn't one of them.

I lied to someone a while ago, and it's been long enough that I had forgotten about it. I almost slipped up the other day by nearly saying something that might have let them know I'd lied to them. Luckily I caught myself, so my secret is still safe (for now). The funny thing is that it's not even about anything important, it's just that I don't want this person to know I lied.

I guess if the concept of right and wrong isn't enough to make you tell the truth, you might want to look at it this way: If you do always tell the truth, you never have to make sure you have your story straight, because it always will be.

Don't worry. I didn't lie to anyone who knows about the blog (so it's none of you. Really. But now that you know I'm a liar, how do you know that last statement wasn't a lie as well? muuhuaahahaha).

Most Awkward Christmas Moment

Ever since my ex-wife and I split up we have tried to remain friends in order to do what is best for the kids. Since we both enjoy watching the looks on our kids' faces when they're opening presents, we've tried to have Christmas morning together even though things didn't work out between the two of us. That way neither of us has to miss out on anything, at least not when it comes to opening presents on Christmas morning. It was a bit odd this year though because this is the first year that my ex has actually been living with her boyfriend. I had a rather awkward moment when my ex opened up the present shown here (photo taken by her boyfriend, not me). Especially since it was given to her by MY MOM! In my mom's defense, she wasn't thinking about it as lingerie but rather as a nice set of pajamas that happened to be my ex's favorite color. Rest assured that if any of my kids get divorced, their ex-spouse will NOT get anything that could be used in the bedroom as a present from me. Even if it is their favorite color.