A Dam Fine Fourth of July
Like many of you, I'll be celebrating our nation's birthday with family and friends at a barbeque, culminating with a spectacular fireworks display. Traditions for this holiday vary from family to family. Some people grill up simple fare consisting of hot dogs and burgers, while others challenge their culinary skills by cooking half or sometimes full beasts over an open flame. There are those whom choose to stay at home and celebrate, while others pack up the family and head to another state, where fireworks are legal and regularly sold to minors and drunk people. Some of the day's happenings are common to all parties. Without fail, either an over-served uncle or an obnoxious neighbor, will eventually pull out a bag loaded with munitions and offer to put on a fireworks show that will light up the sky and accidentally ignite the hair of 1 or 2 small children. After the last firecracker has popped, those not being attended to at the nearest burn unit or suffering from mosquito induced malaria, gather around a bonfire for s'mores and the ever-popular group sing-along.
During my childhood, our family fell into the category of the holiday nomads, seeking Fourth of July fun at my grandparents cottage in Koontz Lake, Indiana. However, we didn't make this journey alone. We also brought with us our best friends and neighbors, the LaBines. Sure, friendship, children similar in age and the lure of an inexpensive vacation at a dirty lake, cramped up in a tiny cinder block bungalow, were all fine reasons for the LaBines to join us. The most important reason we extended the annual invitation was their religious background.
We were Irish catholic. The LaBines were of protestant beliefs, Presbyterian to be exact. I wasn't sure what the differences were between our religions, except that their Sunday services lasted, like 9 hours or something like that and us Catholics were usually in and out of church in 45 minutes. Also, every year they went to "Family Camp", which was a fun-filled, week long vacation with other members of the congregation, where from what I gathered, they played games, did crafts and always came home with really cool Family Camp matching T-shirts. As Catholics, all we did every year was have a fund raiser to re-pave the church parking lot, where someone would win raffle money and be bullied, ever so nicely, into donating the prize back to the church. Then, one of the younger priests would drink too much keg beer and it would be considered a "scandal" and whispered about after weekly mass for the next several months. One of the "perks" to being a Protestant is all the campfire songs they have access to. As Catholics, we only know songs somewhat macabre in nature, which contain the word "Alleluia" at least 37 times. But man, you should hear some of the up-beat ditties those wacky Protestants sing; absolutely perfect for singing around campfires.
We celebrated the Fourth of July similar to most other families. We ate hot dogs and excessively, over-mayonnaised potato salad. The kids played croquet, while my dad and Uncle Buddy LaBine pitched some horse-shoes, until without fail every year, an errant shoe would roll-up and clip one of us kids in the ankle. Then the wives would step in to console the wailing, injured child and scream out,
"Stop playing horseshoes before you KILL someone!!" My mom and Aunt Lynn were always concerned about our safety during the celebration...right up to the time they handed us kids white-hot sparklers and "punks", which were really thin cat-tails that served no purpose, except to have a lit, glowing-orange tip, which we used to burn holes in leaves and each other's flesh.
After wounds were properly dressed and each kid was sprayed down with a toxic dose of mosquito repellant, the entire party headed deep into the woods for a bonfire, s'mores served with warm, pink lemonade and plenty of campfire songs. This is where the LaBine's excelled as a family singing group, taking a backseat to no one, except maybe The Osmonds or The Captain and Tenille. They taught us timeless classics like,
"Michael Row the Boat Ashore"
"Kumbaya"
"I Wish I Was a Fishy in a Brook"...which, by the way, utilizes one of my favorite lyrics,
"I'd go slippy and a slidee
Under everybody's heinie!"
"John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt"
These, along with many others, were sung every time we gathered around the fire. However, my all-time favorite was "Three Fisherman." I don't recall much about the majority of the song. It was about 3 fisherman and they did something...I didn't know what and quite frankly, didn't care. What really thrilled me about this song is that it gave us kids free license to swear at the top of our lungs, something taboo in the Foley house. This was my chance to let loose and be a potty mouth and there was nothing the old man could do about it! At the end of the song, these 3 guys did something that brought them to Amsterdam. The song went something like this,
"They should have gone to Amsterdam
They should have gone to Amsterdam
Amster, amster, shh, shh, shh
Amster, amster, shh, shh, shh
They should have gone to Amsterdam
You must not say that naughty word
You must not say that naughty word
Naughty, naughty, word, word, word
Naughty, naughty, word, word, word
You must not say that naughty word
I'm going to say it anyway.."
Then, all us kids would jump up and scream,
"Amster, amster, DAMN DAMN DAMN!
Amster, amster, DAMN DAMN DAMN!
I was cursing like a sailor, free from repercussions and spankings. It was exhilarating, like running with scissors, buck naked in a crowd and then jumping in a swimming pool 5 minutes after eating a big, heavy sandwich!!! I was free!!!
This surely must have been the same sense of euphoric freedom our founding fathers experienced after winning America's independence. So go forth this Fourth, and celebrate our nation's birth in true American fashion. Get naked, run around while eating something, swear loudly and blow something up. Have a damn fine Fourth of July!
Over the River & Through the Woods
I received a call from my mom this week, during which, she asked if I would be interested in possibly taking a cabinet she no longer needed and was considering putting out for next week's garbage pick-up.
"If you don't want it, I'm sure if I put it out on the street, someone will take it before the garbage men come." she added. In essence, mom was politely offering for me to be the first in line garbage picker and she figured potential rubbish was the decor my wife and I were going for in our home's interior design. I accepted the offer. Furniture is expensive, pride is cheap and vastly overrated. So my wife and I, along with my daughter, hopped in the car and "to Grandmother's house, we go." During the ten minute trip to my parents, I took notice of the many differences my daughter experiences compared to the hardships my sisters and I suffered on our own monthly, Sunday excursions to the Grandparents house.
As I looked in the rear view mirror at my daughter comfortably sprawled out, I got the feeling I was nothing but her chauffeur.
"Must be nice!" I sarcastically shouted back to her. She pulled out the earplugs from her MP-3 player,
"Did you say something?" she asked.
"I said, it must be nice, having all that space to yourself, your own music to listen to, nobody to bother you. When I was your age..." These were the 5 words that instantly signaled my daughter to ignore me, as I was about to embark on an old man rant.
In the late fifties, my parents' generation tired of languishing in the cramped living conditions city life had to offer. With the same pioneering spirit of Lewis and Clark, sans a portly Indian girl as their guide and coonskin hats, they headed westward to explore and develop new lands by erecting countless strip malls and fast food restaurants. Today, we refer to those new-found territories as "the suburbs."
Only about a half-hour trip by car, I can still hear my own grandfather complaining to my mom that she lives out in the sticks, the boonies or my personal favorite, where God lost his shoes.
Similar to the Judeo-Christian belief that all life began after Adam and Eve cranked up the whoopee machine, the origin of all SW suburban life forms can be directly traced back to ancestors occupying an 8 block parcel of land on Chicago's south side. My grandparents lived at 63rd and Pulaski. I'm sure yours lived within 1000 feet of them. And it was pronounced, sixty-terd and Crawferd. For some reason, old people in the city had completely different names for the same road. They also had a language all their own. There was a mysterious place in my grandparent's house my grandma referred to as "the davenport." What the hell is that!?! They also felt it necessary to slip an unwarranted "R" sound in the middle of words. Example: Wash was pronounced "warsh" and wallet became "warlet." Regularly, my grandpa would punish us kids for "wrassling" or excessive "horseplay" by making us sit on the "front stoop", which outside the city was simply called a porch. Since everyone lived in Chicago, the only way to distinguish territories was by church parishes. Listen closely to your parents talk to other old people they meet at parties or wakes.
"I went to St. Nick's."
"I'm a Little Flower graduate, myself."
"We belonged to St. John Fisher." After parish proximities are established, next comes cross referencing old acquaintances to see if perhaps you somehow know each other.
"St. John Fisher? Hmmmm, do you know Jimmy Kenealy?"
"No. Do you know Agnes Polson?"
"No. I knew a guy named Pete Tagliani who went to St. Nick's, ever hear of him?"
"Short Italian guy with a hair-lip...used to run with "Crazy" Lennie Schultz and the Taylor Street Boys?"
"Yeah! That's him! I thought you looked familiar."
Of course they looked familiar. They grew up 50 feet from each other!
As part of the bargain for moving out to the burbs, my parents promised to haul the entire family back into the city 1 Sunday each month, so we could sit and sweat on plastic covered furniture and eat dinner at 12:30 in the afternoon. Like every Sunday in our house, eating before Mass services was strictly forbidden. I guess mixing the Eucharistic bread with a bowl of Fruity Pebbles was as dangerous as washing down a pouch of Pop Rocks with a can of Coke. This meant that after church, me and my 3 sisters, packed our hunger weary bodies into the backseat of dad's Chevy Nova for the long journey to grandma and grandpa's house.
I painfully recall leaning my head on the closed back window, while the sun beat down on my nauseated empty stomach. I don't know which condition brought about the feeling of impending vomit more. It could've been the oppressive heat. Perhaps it was the classical music from the AM station we were forced to listen to. Opening a window was out of the question because it would drown out the opera or symphony dad was enjoying.
"Could you please turn on the air?" one of us would weakly whisper.
"No! It burns gas. A little heat builds character. Now shut up and enjoy the ride!"
Slowly roasting in the backseat didn't build charcater but it did build a vile case of pre-mature, adult body odor for me and my sisters. Eventually, blazing heat, lack of food, Mozart and 4 sweaty kids, crammed together like glistening night crawlers writhing in a Styrofoam cup produced ideal conditions for fighting and cranky behavior. At the first sign of an uprising from us kids, dad would peer back in the rear view mirror and shout,
"If I gotta stop this car, you kids are gonna be sorry!"
This threat has been uttered by parents since the days of cavemen.
"Krog! Stop chewing sister's leg bone! If I stop this wheel, you kids be sorry!"
I have never seen a car stopped by the roadside with an angry dad doling out a batch of "sorry" to his unruly children. What I have witnessed first-hand, is my dad reaching his snapping point in the car and quickly darting his arm behind him through the void between his seat and my mom's. We learned at an early age, when dad's arm appeared in the backseat, take immediate cover. Dad possessed a remarkable skill of maintaining complete control of the car with his left hand, while simultaneously flailing at us kids with his right hand, in search of a fleshy thigh or fanny to swat. Maureen and Kathy, my older sisters, used an out dated contortion defense, wherein they arched their bodies together, like a couple of spoons in a drawer, and tried to conform to the shape of the back door to avoid the blind swoops of dad's open hand. As I boasted earlier, pride is overrated. My little sister Beth was portable and easily maneuvered. With one hand firmly clasped around her neck and the other gripping the elastic of her underpants, I cowered behind her, using her as human shield blocking dad's attempts to spank me. Over the years, with us kids giving him plenty of opportunity for practice, dad eventually honed his skills and refined his accuracy to blindly strike any given child he so desired and still drive.
Although I loved seeing my grandparents, the journey to see them was nearly unbearable. Now I look back at my daughter, singing away to the song on her MP-3 player, comfortably relaxed alone in the spacious backseat, basked in cool air-conditioning and can't help but relish one thought. She's gonna hate the ride home with a 250 pound cabinet on her lap! If she complains and I gotta stop my car...
A Probing Question About Doctors
Recently, my daughter and I visited the home of one of my friends. During our visit, my friend and I joined in with kids, who were playing some typical childhood games. We played running bases and thankfully, we let the kids do the running while we did the catching and tagging. We also played some basketball where again, we let the kids run and I stood in one spot, blocking shots and talking trash to the children. Unfortunately, the final game required me to participate in an activity that demanded I move in a quicker pace than my usual "mosey." The kids challenged the adults to a timed relay-race around the fishing pond! In my prime, I not only relished but excelled in defeating toddlers at games of athletic skill. However, with age comes a few extra chins, a mid-section that jiggles like a 3-tired Christmas Jello dessert and the lack of good judgment to stop yourself from engaging in activities which can kill you. I didn't worry about winning or losing as much as I did about dropping to my knees in front of the kiddies, vomiting and then soliciting their help with C.P.R. Needless to say, we were trounced and the remainder of the evening was spent at home, trying to keep my heart from exploding out of my chest. Like the majestic elephants of the African plains, I could sense it might be my time to die, so I made preparations for such an event. Heeding my mom's childhood advice, I put on a pair of clean underpants, in case I was rushed off to the hospital. In-between taking my pulse and Google searching "Symptoms of a Heart Attack", I made the decision to get healthy so I can once again reign supreme and kick the crap out of ten year olds. So, following the advice of numerous television informercials, I visited my doctor before starting an exercise program.
FACT: After the age of 40, doctors will attempt to diagnose any physical ailments by looking into and probing your butt.
"Hey doc, I feel a pop in my knee when I bend." With the sound of snapping latex and a couple of scoots from his rolling stool, the doctor burrows in close and says,
"All right then. Drop your shorts and let's have a look see."
And it's not a 1-2-3 Bob's your uncle, cursory probe. I compare his prison love expedition into my body cavity to the kind of effort one uses when retrieving a T.V. remote control or pork chop that's fallen behind the couch. With turned head and cheeks pressed together, his face cheek and my butt cheek, I can feel him straining to the shoulder, to get as far in, as humanly possible. When arm ligaments have been stretched to snapping tension, the hand starts blindly pawing around for abnormalities, like a far-sighted person trying to find their fallen glasses in a dark room. The experience is a bit unsettling, almost as much as the doctor's procedures performed during early adolescence.
The summer between 8th grade and high school, all kids had to get a full physical before school began. The kid rumor mill kicked into high gear about what to expect during the physical.
"Dude, he pulls your pants down and squeezes your nuts!!!"
This, of course, referred to the doctor checking for hernias. This was traumatic because it would be the first time I had to drop trow in front of the doctor and I wasn't sure if I was ready to take our relationship to the next level, which included touching, turning and coughing. Several other childish concerns filled my panic-stricken mind.
"What if the female nurse is also in the room?!"
"What if it's really cold in the room and things...you know...retreat?!"
"What if the doctor giggles...what if I giggle...good lord, what if the nurse giggles!!!!"
I gave myself an ulcer that summer thinking about my impending appointment. When the time came for the doctor to check for a hernia, he simply asked me to drop my shorts and turn my head. I prayed for the doctor to make a quick diagnosis and more importantly, have warm fingers. Before I knew it, he was finished and an entire summer filled with angst was all about nothing, which is how I now feel about rectal probes.
I guess you can say my attitude changed after contemplating the cost of what physicians charge for medical attention. The way I see it, they really can't enjoy having their hands up in people's business all day long so I look at it as a means of exacting revenge for high costs. As soon as the nurse leaves, after checking my blood pressure, I strip down completely nude and hop up on the examination table on all fours, ass pointed right at the door waiting for the doctor. Upon entering and being greeted by Mr. Winkie, the doctor asks,
"What seems to be the problem?" To which I respond by yelling,
"You tell me! Now, earn your money, git on in there and get dirty!"
My behavior has become so bad that just last week, we got lost on our way to go miniature golfing. Rather than stop at a gas station for directions, I stopped at the first office I found with the word "Doctor" on the front sign. I ran in and demanded directions and a full rectal exam! They obliged on both requests fearing I was a complete lunatic. Unfortunately, I neglected to notice it was an orthodontist's office I had burst into. I'm sure the doctor will get over the whole incident but I certainly wouldn't want to be the poor sap sitting in the chair after I left, waiting for a teeth cleaning. Eeeeww!
All right, I'm stretching the truth a bit. But doctors really do want to probe with higher frequency than when I was younger. I'm glad to say I've been given a clean bill of health and permission to embark on an intense regimen of physical activity. I think I'll start off slow with some kind of stretching and small movements. That pork chop behind the couch isn't gonna rescue itself, you know.
The Site is Back Up!!!!
Sorry about the screw ups with the blog-site. Luckliy, I was able to copy all the past blogs. I'm going to be moving to an actual website in the future to avoid this kind of down time. So, if you could, shoot me an e-mail with your email address so I can notify you of where I moved the blog if this site goes down again. matt@promortgagepartners.com Thanks.
Nice Melons!
The arrival of long-overdue, warm weather invigorates our hibernating spirits to awaken from a dismal winter's nap and replenishes, both body and soul, in rejuvenating sunshine. As I stood on our patio early last Sunday morning, drinking my cup of coffee, I took a deep, contented breath and drank in the blue skies, gentle breeze and the distant cooing of a Morning Dove. Yeah...right! What I really did was throw on my Sox hat and a baggy pair of shorts, to cover my pajamas/underpants as a courtesy to our neighbors, and then I went outside. After a quick scratch and a complaint about the sun's brightness, I chased a bunny around the yard with a stick, then sat down and polished off 2 cans of Coke. Perhaps a typical Spring morning lies somewhere in-between but 1 thing is common for all men, once the weather turns warm. I speak, of course, of the "Honeydew" list. This refers to a list of chores drawn up by our wives and it's called Honey-Do in a playful manner. "Honey, do this...Honey, do this..." It's a fun way to take the edge off some less than desirable yard work. On the other hand, I literally have a Honeydew list. If I don't complete my tasks, I get popped in the head with a large melon. Like most of you, I try to avoid beatings with produce. It's how I roll.
I'm kidding, of course. My wife would never hit me with fruit. Have you seen the price of fruit lately? She can accomplish the same motivation with the stick used to scare off the bunny.
I don't mind taking care of these yard duties. With the completion of these tasks comes a sense of pride in accomplishment and homeownership. More importantly, it means I can go play golf free of guilt and without sticky, melon juice running down the back of my neck.
I live in a community that proudly boasts, on its' water towers, "World's Golf Center." This affords me the opportunity to go to numerous, beautifully groomed courses and methodically destroy them with every divot-dislodging swing I take...and I take plenty of swings! I am bad. Not in the Michael Jackson, wearing tight leather black pants and dancing all about...not that kind of "Bad", although I must confess, my "Thriller" dance and moon walking have become the stuff of legend on the wedding reception circuit, but I digress.
This year, I've taken steps to improve my game. I'm tired of being the clubhouse lackey and by implementing a simple technique, I've shaved numerous swings off my score. How did I do it? I thought of taking lessons from the local golf pro but figured it would take days before I could significantly lower my handicap. Instructional videos, books, training gizmos were also given consideration but they're expensive and offer no guarantee of success. After countless hours of research this past winter, I've developed a fool-proof system to lower my score. I'm flat-out cheating.
It's simple, inexpensive, highly effective and all you need is a pencil and the willingness to lie about your score. I have both. Some of you out there are probably shocked and appalled at suggesting such a transgression on the game. Are you kidding me? We're golfers. That's what we do, both men and women...we lie about our score. I have to cheat because I can't afford to buy the new equipment other golfers are buying to lower their scores. Just look at some of these clubs they have, the driver in particular. A good one runs about $500 and looks like a mailbox stuck to the end of a fishing rod. Who couldn't hit the ball a mile with a mallet better used on a medieval battle field by Gronk the Destroyer. I challenge any golfers out there to defend their abstinence from cheating by denying they haven't used 1, if not all, of the following phrases during the last golf season.
"Winter Rules": primarily used in the middle of summer, it's uttered in a joking manner for ball relief and never tallied as a penalty.
The Foot Wedge: It's a strange looking club, closely resembling a human leg with a golf shoe on the end of it. Don't sugar coat it. Just announce, "I'm going to kick my ball to better my shot." and be done with it.
Mulligan: adult version of a child's "do-over."
Perhaps you're like me and found yourself in a similar situation. Every time I golf with someone boasting a low handicap, they somehow manage to have "the worst round of their life" when playing with me. While hacking their way around the course they'll defend their crappy play with comments like..
"You should've seen me last week. I was golfing with these guys from work and I was on fire!"
"I'm just goofing around today. If we were playing for money, I'd play a lot better!"
"I'm drunk!"
They always seem to play better with "these guys" whom you've never met or never will meet. It's very similar to the pathetic childhood friend who would brag,
"Last summer, on vacation, this guy let me drive his Camaro and I was like going 130 miles an hour. It was awesome." Or even worse,
"Yeah, last summer, on vacation, I met this chick and we made-out and stuff. It was awesome! You don't know her. She lives in Michigan." The state of Michigan is not only a vacation destination for Illinios-ians but obviously packed with friendly people, willing to let you recklessly drive their cars and fondle their women.
So, as I check my Honey-Do list, I've noticed my wife wants me to build an area to start a garden. She wants to grow some vegetables, herbs and watermelons. I better get crackin' on that...I've never been hit in the head with a watermelon but I can guess it isn't pleasant.
Nature Calls and I Don't Have Call Waiting!
I haven't always been a parent. In fact, I spent the better part of my youth as a child. There are some who would argue I've spent the better part of my adulthood as a child. I maturely respond to this accusation by saying,
"Tough toenails, stupid face!"
That pretty much ends all arguments and is further evidence that I missed my calling as a litigator. Unfortunately, my 13 year old daughter can't quite comprehend that I was once a teenager, subject to the same situations she's currently experiencing. Just the other day, I caught her breaking the "No Food in the Bedroom" rule. As I passed by her room, my ears detected the distinct open-mouthed, smacking sound that a chewing child makes, especially one with a mouthful of braces. I popped my head in and asked,
"Are you eating in your room?" Sensing she was busted, she quickly lept from her bed and stood in front of me. Her response was delayed as she struggled to finish her chew and swallow. With strained neck and teeth clenched, she choked down whatever massive glob she was eating. Like a giant snake downing a mouse, the evidence slowly oozed down her throat. Then she confidently replied,
"No."
"Don't lie! I just saw you chewing something."
"Wait...what?" Then her eyes tilted upward and I could see she started the process of manufacturing a lie. It's quite fascinating watching your child concoct the beginning, middle and end of a good old fashioned lie. It's like looking at the little green light on your computer hard drive. You know it's working by the flickering light and the whirring sound of the thing that makes the whirring sound. When her lie was cooked, the little mental microwave dinged and she blurted out,
"Oh...wait...I thought you asked if I was "bleating my flume."
"What the hell is a flume and why would you be beating it!?!"
"Wait..what?"
Disappointed, I turned around and walked away. I wasn't let down so much by the obvious fib but more so in the lack of creativity and the overall delivery of the fabrication. The entire exchange brought back a bad memory of my very own childhood.
There are 3 absolutes in life which little boys enjoy when opportunity presents itself.
1). Little boys will throw rocks. If there's a pebble on the ground, it's going to be thrown, usually at a stop sign, a car or your best friend. Once thrown, little boys run like hell!
2). Little boys spend a big part of their day inventing new words to describe women's breasts. Then they giggle.
3). Like an over-hydrated male dog with an enlarged prostate, little boys will often pee outside and on anything they find. The ultimate goal of "free-peeing" is to acquire the ability to legibly write your name on the sidewalk or in the snow, depending on the season.
It wasn't until after my 7th birthday that I was instructed on the art of using nature as your very own public toilet. This is one of those special "father/son" moments passed on from generation to generation. My old man and I were fishing at our cottage in Koontz Lake, Indiana when suddenly I had to go number 1 really bad. I stood on the shoreline nervously doing the little boy pee dance but that didn't help. Then, I held the bamboo pole with one hand and with the other hand, thwarted the free-flow of pee by putting a death-grip on my groinal region.
"Hey, you gotta go to the bathroom?" my dad asked.
"No. I'm good." I could feel my face getting hot and red, while my kidneys swelled up and started to ache.
"Just go over in those weeds and pee." he suggested. That was it. I ran over to the tall patch of weeds and let loose. The euphoric feeling of an emptying bladder coupled with the unbridled freedom of public urination opened up a whole new world for me. I was a man! Unfortunately, later that same summer, my introduction to ridding myself of Number 2, in an outside setting, didn't go as smoothly. Cub scout Den #545 was out on a recon mission of aimlessly roaming the local forest preserve on the hunt for rare acorns and empty beer cans. Suddenly, during mid-hike, my digestive system felt compelled to rid itself of our lunch of fireside Van Camp's baked beans and wienies. Like all fathers, my dad possessed the innate ability to sense when one of his off-spring was about to poo himself. To avoid having me suffer the embarrassment of soiling myself in front of Cub Scout den #545, he pulled me aside and gave me a quick tutorial on "making bonies" in the wild. Everything was going fine until it came time for clean up. Dad told me to use some leaves in lieu of toilet paper and I misunderstood the dynamic behind the actual application of "Nature's Charmin." Rather than plucking a large leaf, I straddled a leafy bush and kind of wriggled, hoping the cluster of leaves on the flexible branches would tidy things up. Unfortunately, I found myself stuck, underpants hopelessly entangled in a bush with freshly dirtied leaves, unable to escape. Dad, always one to think quick on his feet distracted the attention of the other cub scouts by looking down th trail and yelling,
"I see a grizzly bear!" Instantly, 13 boys grabbed for the nearest rock to throw and sprinted away in search of the feared suburban, Illinois grizzly bear. This gave dad plenty of time to extricate me from the poo-bush without anyone the wiser of my stupidity. Once free, I picked up a rock and joined in the hunt. The levels of disappointment and shame my dad must have suffered are too numerous to list.
Prior to parental sanctioning of public whizzing, I was required to come home when I had to go to the bathroom and take care of business. As a boy of 5, I simply refused to do that. I'd hold off until it was too late and I'd "accidentally" let a little squirt out. Then, and only then, would I go home. Inevitably, my parents would discover the slowly growing wet spot on my shorts and ask me why I pee'd myself. This is where my daughter's inability to tell a good lie reminds me of my own shortcomings when coming up with a good excuse.
"A puddle jumped up at me!" I blurted out. What I was trying to say was that someone jumped in a puddle and the splash lept up on my shorts. It was brilliant. Sad to say, 5 year olds don't possess the necessary verbal skills required to pull off that kind of intricate lie. My ruse was uncovered and I was sent to bed early. Like any cunning child, I learned from my mistake...not to come home and pee when I needed to but to come up with a more believable lie! The next time I pee'd my pants, which happened to be the next day, I came up with a fool-proof excuse. When confronted once again, I replied,
"Deeno wet my pants!" Duane "Deeno" Clausson was a neighborhood friend whom I regularly scuffled with in front yard wrestling matches. My teeny brain figured my parents were savvy enough to connect the dots and follow my logic based solely on that ridiculous claim. Again, I didn't have the skills to verbalize that while wrestling with Deeno, he pee'd his pants and during a death roll on the lawn, his pee transferred onto my pants. Duh!!! It's so obvious. Again, it was off to bed early, probably not for the act but the genuine stupidity in the lie!
As a parent, it's funny to see how certain behaviors for kids never change. My daughter is going to break rules. I'm going to bust her for doing so and she's going to try and talk her way out of punishment by "fudging" the truth. Some things never change. Take grown men for example. We're just larger, hairier little boys and when given the chance will still throw rocks, pee outside at the drop of a hat and still manage to invent new terms for women's breasts. Then we giggle.
A
Motivation, for those whom choose to write, comes in many different ways. Classic writers are inspired to put pen to paper by ancient, scantily dressed babes called muses. I am not one of these writers. If a half naked woman appears in front of me I'm going to stop whatever it is I'm doing and give chase, in hopes that during my sweaty, tongue-wagging pursuit she becomes a completely naked woman. Then I'll have something to write about! Other writers require more drastic conditions to awaken their creative juices. Case in point, a shipwrecked survivor on an uncharted island, triggered by eating a steady diet of coconuts and his own toenails, will eventually feel impassioned to write the word, "HELP" on a clean stretch of beach. Short, yes, but the author really captures the essence of his feelings. Also, if the desperate beachcomber had an editor with half a brain, he'd offer creative suggestions to appeal to a larger audience, hopefully one with a boat and a sandwich. "Help" has been overused and become rather cliche', don't you think? "FREE BEER!", that's what I'd write. Sure it's twice as many words but Ive found only a select few will take the time to stop and help someone but everyone, especially my family and friends, will stop on by if free booze is offered. For me, all I need to get things rolling is a steaming, hot cup of gas station coffee!
The benefits of this mug o' liquid, morning motivation are two-fold. When I sit down at the computer, I have a clear mind, ready to create something amazing. Similarly, before I can actually write, the coffee "moves" me, and my bowels, to sit down and create something amazing! Thankfully for you, I keep that to myself but the writing, I'm happy to share. This morning, while getting ready to pour my morning cup of coffee at the local Speedway gas station, a disturbing incident took place, which nearly made me sick. As I pulled a 24 oz. cup from the dispenser, I looked inside and to my horror, discovered a long, black hair stuck to the side. A person with a weaker constitution, and common sense, would've been disgusted enough to stop right there, turn about and leave immediately. Not me. I stayed and in my own mind, justified why I should overlook said greasy, clinging strand of unknown origin and hygiene, and pour myself a cup of coffee.
"At least it's not a short and curly."
Bingo!!! I can smooth talk myself into anything! Besides, I can understand how a long, head hair could find its way into the cup. Discovering a short and curly makes me wonder what kind of mischief was going on at the cup rack prior to my entering the store. In reality, I can't leave. I have too long and too fond of a relationship with the local gas station to sever all ties. It is my special place.
As an impressionable young lad, I vividly recall our family trips to the gas station. Dad would pull up to the pump and magically trigger a ringing bell to summon, what I perceived to be, the COOLEST man on the planet; the gas station attendant!
"Fill 'er up with regular." is all Dad had to say to spring Gas Station Man into action. With oily, little nosed pressed to the backseat window and jaw agape with dumbfounded awe, I watched as he bounded about the car in his dirty, orange jump suit. I thought, surely this man is super-human as he could pump gas, check the oil, wash the windows with that blue stuff and really cool squeegee thing and still find time to fire off a few playful shots at me with his imaginary finger gun. What a guy!! But what really impressed me was when he finished and my Dad handed him money, he pulled out a wad of cash the size of a folded Belgian waffle. With the skilled hands of a surgeon, albeit a surgeon with dirt caked fingernails and on the back of his hand, a tattoo of a naked woman wrestling a python, he rifled through the wad of cash by pure instinct alone and made change for a twenty in the blink of an eye. But the coolest part was yet to come! On his matching orange belt was a shiny, chrome coin dispenser and with a few blind clicks, quickly made the correct change down to the penny. Wow! Regrettably, nobody uses the shiny, chrome coin dispenser anymore. (HINT: This would make a great Christmas gift for the author! HINT) The other thing that made our trips to the gas station so special was the free giveaways with every fill up. The gas station was solely responsible for keeping the Foley household fully stocked with boxes of Kleenex sporting a collectors pictorial series of antique cars. We also built up an enviable collection of drinking glasses that for years were considered our "formal" china. That was a long time ago. I was young, immature and easily impressed. Today, my relationship with the gas station is much more complex and mature.
My childhood super-hero attendant has been replaced by automated pumps and a disgruntled cashier angrily perched behind 4 feet of bullet-proof glass, anxiously counting the minutes before their next smoke break. Free giveaways are a thing of the past but now the gas station is kind of a roadside bazaar of shopping oddities. Unique gifts found nowhere else on the planet are readily available for purchase at reasonable prices. Where else can you find a "Pooing Pig" keychain or a cigarette lighter made from the spent casing of a .45 caliber bullet? All your NASCAR wants and needs can be filled as well. I used to think Heaven was the only place I could get Auto Trader magazine, kitty litter, feminine products and a 10 pack of bungee chords all in the convenience of one-stop shopping. And if that isn't enough, they offer one more item that quite frankly, I'm addicted to and keeps me coming back like a twitching, junky to the crack-pipe. I'm referring to the Speedway jumbo hot dog!
At 2 for $2, and all the free fixins you can pile on, it's not only a taste sensation but economical to boot. I know I should be repulsed by the fact that their made of mechanically separated pig parts and nitrates. I should also take heed to the fact that they're prepared by the more than likely unwashed hands of same person, the disgruntled attendant, whom is also responsible to handle dirty money and clean the public restroom each hour but I can't help myself. Maybe it's the glistening of the greasy, sweat oozing out from their skin, the hot dog's skin..not the attendant, as they methodically roll under the cancer causing heat lamps, that piques my hunger. Or maybe the promise of unlimited brown, chili-like stuff or hot cheese from a giant, seldom cleaned, pump makes my stomach jump up and scream,
"Sweet Jesus! This is livin'!!!"
My gas station, hot dog mania is as such that last week, just after plopping down my $2 for a couple of jalepeno and onion smothered colon-cloggers, one attendant, with a disgusted look on her face, yelled out to the other attendant,
"For God's sake Lorraine, throw those hot dogs out! They've been on there all day and they're startin' to look like something the cat hacked up."
Lorraine, being the good employee, obliged and dragged over a garbage can and with turned up nose and face soured, she dropped the remaining hot dogs, one by one, into the trash. All this was said and done with me still standing there holding my 2 hot dogs. In essence, my dinner, if I had come in to the gas station 30 seconds later, was now considered garbage. Like many other great thinkers in history, I stood now at a mental crossroads, perplexed by an inner battle being raged in my head. Should I heed commom sense and self-preservation or should I eat garbage? Stymied by deep thought, and an empty social life which provides ample time to basically waste large chunks of time, I stood there for several minutes contemplating my decision. Then I remembered my gift of justification and told myself,
"At least it doesn't have a short and curly on it."
Let the feast begin!
We all have our vices and desires we know others may find downright appalling. So be it. For I have realized one thing from these experiences. It's the wise person who lives life by their own standards, be damned the judgement of others in regards to that which pleasures us. It's the fool who feels inspired to write about them!
