The Parents And The Play Date

My little boy is starting to grow up a bit. He has been aware that he wants a friend for a few months now. I have been a little saddened by his unfulfilled need.

A few months back Josh asked if we could go to the store and buy potato chips. I asked him why and he replied " If I had some chips maybe I could have a friend over to share them with me." I was heartbroken to say the least. Soon Josh was making up imaginary friends. I would hear him playing with them in his room, carrying on long conversations. At this point my sympathy began to give way to concern. Two days ago, he took the imagination to a whole new level. He began to speak in a higher voice and insisted that he was not Josh, but rather Suzanne. At this point I was just getting creeped out. I was convinced that this was not an exercise in gender confusion. This was more like a version of Sybil, the story of the woman with 30 personalities. Not being sure what to do about all this, because admittedly I may have failed the semester of childhood behavior and development while getting my psychology degree. I was not remembering much of what I should do on a cognitive level to properly nurture the boy, so  I tried some old school remedies. First I tried ice baths, and when that did not shake him out of his funk, I sprinkled holy water on him and yelled what little Latin I remembered from being an altar boy. Nothing. Not even a head spin or projectile vomiting. Next I tried the home made electro-shock therapy, by building up static electricity on my rug and then going and touching him on the nose. This actually elicited somewhat of a bad response, his voice went two octaves lower and he told me I was bule gila, which is an Indonesian term roughly translating to "crazy honky". At this point my wife intervened and banished me back to my room, which is really where I wanted to be in the first place. It gave me time to think of an action plan for the boy.

It turns out, He had his own ideas. For the last six months he has been pointing at the house across the street and telling me that he wants to go play with Justin Beeber. I don't know why he thinks that the singer lives there, but I do know that Justin Beebers mom looks pretty pissed off when she is mowing the lawn while Justin Beebers dad hangs out in the garage drinking beer. Sunday afternoon I told Josh to get in the car and he went out to the garage. I come out a minute later and he is at the end of the driveway talking to two kids over twice his age. I broke character for once and asked Josh if he was making new friends. (Normally I would be yelling to get the bikes off my lawn) Later that evening the two boys showed up on the step asking if Josh could come out and play. It was like a dream come true for Josh, and I could not have been prouder and happier for him.

To prove this we totally ruined it for him by standing out on the front porch making the kids pose for home movies and pictures. As I stood there taking snapshots, I had an revelation. I had become the persona that I hated as a kid. The doting parent with a camera. I was now that parent who insisted on taking the picture of me and my date before the big dance. I remember well. I just wanted to pick up the girl and get to dancin’. Nope. Boy, get in here and meet the father. Stand up against the fireplace and take a picture with our daughter. Keep your damned hands to yourself. Don't stand so far away from her, I cannot get you in the picture. Are you afraid of our beautiful girl? What is wrong with her? What, don't you don't want to be with our daughter? Wait, what, You DO? What do you mean by that??!!

Sorry, had a momentary flashback there. (Don't worry Kayla, this is not about you, your dad only threatened to tear my head off.)

The sorry thing about all these pictures is that Josh will NEVER care about having the memory. He will come to loathe it when we show him these pictures at family reunions 20 years from now. I know I hate those pictures about me, especially since I am married. My wife has found some of those pictures. It brings up questions I do not like to answer. Like what happened to that girl? "Well after I took her to prom, a few weeks later she went into intensive psychotherapy and last I heard she married Chaz Bono." No one wants to ask any more questions after that response, so I am off the hook.  Unlike my poor kids who will have to face the same torture that the rest of us did.

Does It Mean What I think it does?

The first thing this morning I hopped into the shower and grabbed the shampoo.As I dispensed a bit, I read the label which included the word "Professional". It got me wondering "What is even remotely professional about that?" It seems that everyday I am being offered a product that is 'Pro' this or 'Pro' that. I started wondering if I had the wrong idea about the meaning of the word. So I looked it up. (Yes, I walked right out of the shower, went straight to the living room and stood there buck naked, dripping wet, pulled the Websters dictionary off the shelf and read it.) The definition was "Professional: Following an occupation as a means of livelihood or for gain: a professional builder." Well,OK.then.

It seems me that any item that I can buy at WalMart should not really be considered a Professional grade product. I go back to the still running shower and rinse out my hair. I put on some shaving cream, also a 'Pro-Series' then grabbed my new Pro-Glide razor. My mind starts to race. As I began to shave it occured to me that if this is truly a product for professionals why am I using it? Never once in my life has anyone offered to pay me for shaving my face. I can imagine it though. The paparazzi all clamoring around me flashbulbs a poppin' and microphones being thrust in my face. "Mr. LeClere, Mr. LeClere, to what do you attribute your great fame and wealth?" "Well, I was kind to animals, I ate all the veggies on my plate and every day I SHAVED MY FACE!!!" All this is followed by a hushed silence as everyone silently nods in agreement.If only it worked that way.

Later in the day I decided it was time to get my hair cut. Where else to go, but the local "Pro Cuts" at the mall. I have no idea why they call it that,no self respecting professional would let these people touch their hair.  In fact I did not see one person there who really qualified as a 'Pro" Just a lot of kids and the occasional once upon a time athlete. You know the kind I mean? Six foot five, tribal tattoo on the bicep, wearing sunglasses backwards, mouth breather with a buzz cut, and about 60 pounds overweight. Also notable is that the guy is wearing the baggy multi-colored M.C. Hammer style pants with a pattern that is best described as "Puking kaleidoscope", and a black sleeveless tee shirt with the W.W.F. logo and a picture of the Undertaker. I bet I see this guy at the Walmart in about half an hour.

I sit down in the salon chair, tell the stylist what I would like to see, and she proceeds to give me a haircut that will be an embarrassment to me for the next 6 weeks. As she is cutting my hair, she mentions that I should not worry about the way things look now, it will grow back in.
This is of little reassurance to me. I reminded her that the rest of the hair keeps growing too, so pretty much my hair will look this bad for the duration. It turns out that this is the equivalent of sending your steak back at the restaurant, because it is undercooked. You get the steak back cooked properly, but you don't dare eat it because someone spit in it. In this case, when she went to trim the hair off my neck with the electric clippers, she spent what seemed to be an eternity and I asked if everything was alright? "Oh yes it is fine" she said. " I am just being careful to make it straight." and she shot me a smile that reminded me of Satan welcoming me to hell.

After the haircut I made my way over to the Walmart to look for a more items that had "Pro" but could not possibly be used in any professional capacity. I was reading the label of a can of baby formula, "Enfamil Pro-Sobee" to see what made this suitable for professional babies, when I heard "Hey Putz!"
I turned around to see my mouth breathing friend in the technicolor pants from the salon. I asked him what possessed him to call me that? He pointed to the back of my head. I went to the nearest mirror and saw that etched onto the back of my skull, the stylist had buzzed in the offending word. It is embarrassing.

But it will grow back in.

My crappy life

Some people have a bad life, Some have a an average experience and some have a great life. No matter where people fit in this, they will still complain. Which is why I am here.

I have been noticing how much of my life is immersed in literal crap. It fills my home, my thoughts and my daily life.

You ask; "How can that be, when you have a nice wife and beautiful children?" Kids are where it starts! I have a 9 month old who may as well be a fertilizer factory. This kid can load a diaper in record time. He even has different settings for firmness and quantity.

The 3 year old is no better. He is nearly potty trained, except for the number 2 part. On the plus side, he is advanced in his training so he comes and asks for a diaper so he can go do his job. Which by the way, he is quick to let you know, that once you have supervised the application of the diaper, your presence is no longer required, as he "wants his privacy." A few days ago, just around bedtime, I hear the shower turn on and much arguing between Josh and his mommy. Apparently he had taken it upon himself to remove his own diaper once it was at capacity and in doing so managed to soil the throw rug in his bedroom. I was already asleep when the circus started and groggily waddled into the bathroom to see this huge brown stain on the rug, and then was accosted by a smell that would put a stockyard to shame.

Which brings up another issue. I live on the edge of the city, where 100 yards away we have the border to open country. Less than a 3 minute drive from us there are bovines. Lots of them. Depending on the time of year the feedlots near us can have thousands of them. If the wind is in just the right direction you can experience the invigorating aroma of fermenting fertilizer and ammonia in the evening air. Sometimes I like to sleep with my window open and the fan on and get the benefit of the pleasant smell of fresh air and the clover in the fields. Once in a while the wind shifts and the fan turns into the equivalent of a turbocharger for flatulent cows. There is no better way to get me out of the bed than to blow Angus methane up my nose. 2 days ago Josh walked into my room and asked if I would read him a story then his nose wrinkled up. "Daddy, what is that smell?" I replied, "That my son, is the smell of the country." He looked at me funny and then decided he did not really need a story all that bad after all and went to his own room.

Last night I was asleep when I the familiar fragrance drifted in. I sleepily closed the window and remembered that I had forgotten to take a pill. I went to the kitchen, pulled the basket of medicine off the fridge and dispensed myself some blood pressure medicine. Downed a big glass of water and went back to sleep. About 3 hours later I had a sharp pain and made a beeline for the bathroom. Dessy heard the commotion and calmly walked in the room with the bottle of medicine I had taken. She said "Hon, did you take you blood pressure medicine?" "YES, for crying out loud, can't you see I am busy here?"
She lovingly smiled and showed me the bottle. "Did you mix up your bottle with this bottle of laxatives?" She then got this evil smile,like she could not have planned that one out better herself and she returned to bed.

I read the bottle and realized my mistake.

Well crap.

The Class Reunion

A few days back one of my class mates organized a 50th birthday party for all of the people in my high school class that were turning or had turned fifty this year.It was a real treat getting to see some old friends again. I would like to say it is because I miss old friends and love to rehash memories from the late 1970's. But that is really not the whole truth. I found that in fact that reminiscing was actually a softening tool in order to get the real story form some of my cohorts. Oh sure, 20 years ago the reunions meant that we had to brag about how successful we were in just ten years of adulthood. I am totally the worst of the worst at that. For my 10 year reunion I actually went out and bought a used Mercedes to show just how successful I had become. I suppose I would have been more convincing, but I could only afford one of those t-shirts with the tuxedo drawn on it and some jean shorts.

We arrived fashionably late and as I entered the gathering, I heard, " Hey, it is Mark, we can start the party now!" (Unfortunately I had to pay Dessy 10 dollars to say this, and because of the loud music, no one heard it anyway) I had not been at the event even ten minutes and I was comparing hernia stories with 2 guys, and explaining in great anatomical detail how my surgery progressed. I also learned that one classmate was either selectively deaf, or he was absolutely accustomed to eating and hearing the words "testicle" and "grapefruits" in the same sentence. He did not even pause once as I explained my operation while he gobbled his pizza and salad.

It seemed that the color of conversations had changed a lot over 30 years. Fresh out of high school we all were so young and fresh and bulletproof. Saturday it went one of two ways. Either everyone was marveling over how great someone still looked, or they were doing what I was doing. The underhanded compliment, also known as the "Stealth" insult. Let me give you an example of one of my conversations with some folks that night.

All names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Me: "Wow, Malcolm looks so great, those plastic surgeries really paid off."
Sam: "Did he have a tracheotomy?"
Me: "No that is his belly button, one too many face lifts, the last one was just a little too aggressive, ya know?"

Roland: "Did you see the great pictures of Jim Bob and his kid who just got admitted to Yale?"
Me: "Yea, you heard it wrong, he said jail." 

Elenore: "Look at you, Mark, you look so great!"
Me: Little early in the evening for you to be so drunk, isn't it?"

I also fielded a personal complaint.

Georgia: "I cannot believe how sarcastic you are now. Boy you have a pissy outlook on life!"
Me: "You would too if you had a kid that kept dropping your bifocals in the toilet!"


That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the evening.

And I had only been there 15 minutes at that point.

The Road Rage Incident.

It was a hot afternoon and the highway was crowded. I was just driving home my normal route, eating a taco bell burrito,drinking a water that had been sitting in the hot car all day and listening to the radio, when suddenly my mundane drive got a little extra flava.

I was on the interstate getting ready to merge onto my exit when I noticed a little red car speeding up to pass me on the right. The car cut me off from being able to exit in the prescribed lines and as it passed me I happened to be taking a bite of the taco. Apparently my eating was an offence to the driver who promptly flipped me off. Flipped me off!!

That should have been the end of it, but of course you know it was not. The driver then positioned himself directly in front of me and slammed on the brakes, and again gave me the one finger salute.

I responded by taking another bite of the taco. This must have infuriated the other driver who then reached out his sunroof and again gestured his displeasure. I decided to change lanes and the aspiring hand model then followed suit and again with the bird, out the drivers window.

At this point, I was out of taco so I decided to take my cell phone in hand and prepare to call the guy in for road rage like behavior.

He then pulled over in front of me and stopped. I stopped my car on the side of the road and the guy jumps out of his car, yelling profanities and this is when I noticed he was about 6 foot tall, 200 pounds tattooed from head to toe with a construction mohawk. I could just feel a cultural exchange coming on.

I rolled down the window as he approached yelling. It was not what I expected, as he declared he was on the phone with the cops. I politely and calmly stated that I was in complete agreement, and that he should call in the officers and let them referee.
O.K. Maybe not politely. "Go ahead Jackhole, get them over here, you cut me off, slammed on your brakes and are flipping gang signs at me!"
At this point he told 911 that it was cool, and he hung up. Then he yelled at me about raising my hand as He passed  and cut me off on the right. I held up the Taco Bell bag, and Said, "I WAS EATING A TACO!!! "

At this point his demeanor changed, and he said, "Oh, sorry man." and held out his hand in to shake and relieve the tensions. We shook and he got in his car and raced off.

As I thought about it, I realized a few things. One, I am not as young as I once was, and it may be harder to defend myself than it used to be. So I need to make sure I am armed with more than a hardshell taco when mixing it up with the local talent. Maybe a hot coffee from Mcdonalds or a mashed potato and gravy bowl from KFC.

I also realized that maybe I should change up my snacks. I bet if I had been eating a carrot stick, the guy would never have gotten pissed off at me. On the other hand if I had been eating a celery stick he may have thought I was flipping him off.

From now on I will be more cautious, but if you know I am in a bad mood and you see me getting a 12 pack of taco's at the drive up, steer clear of me. I may be forced to drip lettuce and cheese and taco shell all over you.

Dude, You're Sick!

Have you noticed how some terms suddenly do not mean what you once thought they did? Take the word 'sick' for instance. To a lot of us it means being less than well, to others it means totally insanely crazy cool. To me, at this moment it is more like bronchitis on a stick. I had been sniffling and all that for about a week and it started to subside, but a little over a week ago, it came back with a vengeance. I regressed quickly and went from stuffy nose to insufferable jerk in about a day. I know, there are those who may argue that it was a slippery slope or a fine line for me to reach that point anyway. I would refute that point. That is, if I still had a voice.

Two days ago, to the delight of my family and neighbors, I lost my voice. My 3 year old especially loved it because for the first time in months, he was able to get a word in edgewise during a conversation. Fortunately my job is one that I can type messages to people so it has not really affected my ability to work.
One thing that is affected however is story telling at bed time. My son came up to me the other night asking me to read him a Bible story. I hesitated but then got a great idea. I started to open the book and told Josh that if he was not a good boy, God would make it so I could not talk. He looked puzzled like he was thinking very hard about this. Then he got an evil grin and he smacked his little brother on the head and said "OK God. Smite daddy!"

It does not take much effort these days to get sick and with the economy the way it is, many folks will go to work even if they are not well, simply because they cannot afford to stay home. I am one of those people. Last Wednesday, I made the mistake of coughing out loud at work. It was like an alarm went off and one of my co-workers piped up and told the team lead, "Mark is sick, can you send his dumb a** home please?" To which the lead replied, "Oh you betcha" and I was on the next elevator to the ground floor.

I worked from home and stayed in bed, hacking and wheezing most of the Memorial Day weekend. Despite all rest I was not improving so I decided to see a doctor. As it turns out there is no doctor to be had on a holiday weekend so I had to go to one of the county health clinics. This is never a good thing, especially in my area. For one reason, I live in what is arguably an impoverished area, lots of immigrants and seasonal workers with no money or insurance. When I arrived at the clinic, I could see a long wait ahead of me.

Fortunately I had a strategy to help shorten the wait. I call it the "Moon Pie Maneuver." I went to the bathroom and took a moon pie out of my pocket, and ate it. I then walked back into the waiting area and started coughing. I asked for a tissue then in plain view of the receptionist I coughed our a nice wad of phlegm and chocolate. I looked shocked and said "whoa, THAT can't be good!"
Let me tell you something, I suddenly was in an examination room. You would have thought I was a celebrity or something. In walked an aging doctor who looked a lot like Dick Van Dyke wearing a large bow tie. Apparently my impression was not that far off because he took the Mary Poppins approach to medicine. He sang a little song about how a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down, then he did a heel toe, right shuffle, ball, heel, toe, toe; ball change right back out of the room.
Soon an assistant came in with a prescription for an inhaler and showed me the door. I was out in the parking lot before it hit me that I had not actually been examined, and I was out of moon pies so I just went home.

I am using the inhaler, but not in the way it was intended. It turns out that stuff is pretty flammable, so If I take a puff then exhale over a candle, I can trim my mustache and eyebrows all at the same time. To which my kid says, "Daddy, that is so SICK!"

Till next time....

The Fog, The Fantasy And The Facts Of The Matter

Monday morning back to work day. I backed the truck out of the garage and started down the highway. I needed to adjust the side mirror and rolled down the window a little. The fresh air felt good so I left the window down.

The day was gloomy and overcast, cool and misty. I had a long drive ahead of me,
so my thoughts began to wander. It was not long until I hit a patch of fog I was completely in fantasy land.

I sat taller in my seat, thrust out my chest and imagined I was in a much better place.

Now I  was Captain LeClerc, sailing the high sea in on the HMS Beagle, wind in my hair,the ocean rolling and heaving, the feel of a light rain against my clean-shaven cheek. I could hear roar of thunder in the distance as I charged forth unafraid and bold, toward the fearsome foe, the uncertain destiny that waited for me.

The thunder grew louder and closer, and I could smell an acrid burning smell, almost assuredly the stench of death from Davy Jones locker. Suddenly there was a sizzling sound and a huge wave hit the starboard bow, rolling up to the ships wheel where I stood undaunted and unwavering. I was the "The Captain". 

The sizzling suddenly got louder and I was suddenly jolted back to reality. I was
not a captain, I was not wearing a uniform, and my ship was just an old pickup. A tractor trailer rig had passed me on the left, and the rain had gotten harder. I was getting soaked. The smell of death was only the combination of the  diesel exhaust from the semi, and the wet manure of the stockyard I was driving past.

The aroma of all that cow crap was just formidable and at this point, I was compelled to roll up the window. I turned off the Roger Whitaker CD (only those of you over the age of 70 will understand that obscure reference, so basically none of you) and wiped my glasses clean. The fog was lifting and the rain was steady.

I knew from experience that once you leave a daydream, you never really get to go back. It is just not the same. The work parking lot was full and I had to park farther out than usual. I would be able to enter a new fantasy.

The one where I love my job and sunshine and butterflies fly out of my rear end. 

When It Rains, It Pours.

This weeks started out like normal. Monday morning wake up, hit the snooze a few times, get out of bed, curse the night for passing too quickly and race to work, cause I am down to the wire and nearly late for my first meeting.

The beginning of the week was status quo, no problems but no real triumphs either.

Until Tuesday. As I drove home from work I had to stop and get gas. As I returned from paying I noticed a river of yellow water flowing out from under my car, and then say the last of the waterfall dripping from the engine. I had blown out the water pump and was still 25 miles from home. I limped home and called the dealer and ordered a new part. 

As a younger man, this would not have bothered me in the least, as I was accustomed to working on my own cars. The last few years however I have lost my acute mechanical skills as well as the ability to crawl underneath the car.  Oh I can get my head under the car but my belly now scrapes on the oil pan. And the bumper. 

When I was in my twenties, I would pull an engine in a hour, fix what was needed and have it back on the road the next day. 5 years ago, I went to replace an engine on on my SUV and it took me 5 tries and about 2 months. Still I am too cheap to pony up the cash to have a professional do the job in a timely manner.

The repair will  eat up the rest of my evenings this week and all of my Saturday. But my wife is happy, because with me out in the garage all that time, she has one less child to look after. 

Now that the sedan is parked, I had to rely on my backup vehicle, the same SUV that took me five tries to fix. It has been sitting in my garage for 3 years, I only drive it if the snow is deep enough to warrant using 4 wheel drive. It is pretty much a refrigerator on wheels, so it sucks gas pretty fast. That will provide me with a good incentive to fix the other one quickly.

Wednesday morning I get up in my usual fashion and race out the door five minutes late. As I check the SUV for fluids and all that, I notice the tags expired 2 months ago. Crapola. I would have to be extra careful and not get caught. Luckily the county clerks office was on the way so I could stop and renew them. 
As I was driving down the highway, sure enough I get followed by the Highway Patrol. Fortunately for me someone else must have been infracting the law in a more conspicuous manner because he passed me by to go get them. 

I stopped to get the new tags, and then noticed the car was out of gas. That will make me 10 minutes later, but you do what you have to do. 

As I got about 5 miles from work, it started to drizzle lightly. No problem, I have an umbrella. I parked and thought, it i not so bad, I will just book on into work and not get wet.  Bad call. I got to the first security gate and badged in which must have been what the gods were waiting for. The heavens opened wide and drenched me for the last 100 yards to the building. Sure, I could have stopped and pulled the umbrella out of my pack, but I thought that if I stopped to get the umbrella out, I would get wetter than if I just kept walking. Moot point as it turned out. I ended up looking like a fat drowned rat. As I entered my office area, a cube farm, some of my coworkers audibly snickered. They piped down when I shook like a dog to rid myself of the excess water. The laughing stopped altogether when I undressed and hung my shirt and pants on the desk to dry. I think it may have been because my socks smelled like a wet dog. That or because I forgot to wear underwear.

After my pants dried and I had returned to conforming to office guidelines concerning proper attire my team lead came over and mentioned that it was going to be rainy the rest of the week and then offered me the option of working from home for the rest of the week. I think it was nice of her to understand that the SUV cost me so much in gas, and let me avoid the extra expense.

As nice as her offer was, I still wish she would get my name right. When she walked away I heard her call me Mr. Frank n Beans.   

I see therapy in your future.

Today at work, someone at work automatically offered a "God Bless You." to someone who had just sneezed. He then he began musing aloud, "I wonder what happens when sinners like me offer the blessing without really thinking about what they re saying? Does it really '*bless* someone at all? Does God honor that?"

I of course had to offer to him the benefit of my vast theological knowledge. I replied "Actually, when a sinner says 'God Bless you' an angel gets its wings ripped off." As he took that in, I further explained, "After the angel gets his wings ripped off it is excruciating and makes the angel cry out in pain and we people on earth hear that resulting scream. We just call it thunder." I know that I am right because I have been to Bible College down in Texas.

Sort of makes me a religious authority.

Now, my coworkers are accustomed to the river of sarcasm that seems to flow out of me constantly, but it occurred to me I need to start being more careful with what I say to my kid.

I know he is only 3 and is a brighter than average kid, but still he is a kid and is in his formative stage. If I am not careful I am going to crack him up.

Last night as we prepared for bed, and I was reading a story out of the children's bible story book to Josh. He suddenly cuddled up to me pointed to flashlight that was recharging on the dresser and said in a small and fearful voice "Daddy, I am scared of that light."

I immediately told him, " You better be scared, that blinks faster if you are naughty, and it is gonna get you!" Then I continued reading the story about Isaiah getting a word of God for his people.  Apparently I need to start spending more time reading the bible for myself too. Especially given the fact I can read it and at the same time mess with my kids psyche.


It may be hard to believe, but I am actually really sensitive at heart, I just tend to mask it with a great wall of sarcasm and denial. I have been trying to remember how I felt when I was his age, but that was 47 years ago, and I think the concussion and Jack Daniels that I had when I was younger man somehow has masked the memories.

Still I have a hard time not waffling with the kid, sometimes I am totally sympathetic and supportive, and sometimes just gotta go with the teasing.

He is a quick study I have to give him that. He is just like me except for being really athletic. I would call him "Mini Me" but "Skinny-me" might fit the bill a little better.

After all the messing with him, he was ready to show me what he had learned. Right before I read him the story, he watched me change the sheets on the bed.
After I read to him and we watched some TV, he said "Daddy, I want to lay on your arm." I assumed he meant he wanted to cuddle up to go to sleep so Like the loving dad I sometimes am, I reached out and pulled him close. He cuddled up, turned around and cut the cheese on my forearm, then proudly told me what he had done.

It may have been a bit sophomoric, but it got the job done.


I Wonder what he dreams up next?

Cacaphony Of Thought

I saw a commercial recently that seems to describe the inner workings of my thought processes. I rarely seem to have a prolonged train of focused thought, it is more like my mind is a search engine and when one concept surfaces, about 3 million other loosely correlated subjects get listed below. You might say I am google-brained.

This revelation was brought to light while I showered this afternoon. I was washing my hair and looking in the mirror I have on the shower wall. I noticed my eyebrows needed trimming. Now the sad thing about this is that until my wedding nearly 5 years ago, I never had trimmed my eyebrows and never thought any thing of it. The just were OK on their own. As I prepared for the wedding, I decided it would be good to do the total groom package. Got a good hair cut, shaved the goatee, (wife's little sister mentioned that the gray in it made me look old) and then trim the eyebrows. I did it and it has been a nightmare ever since. If I don't trim them every two weeks now, I end up with one side making me look like a Romulen, and the other side, well just looks like hell.

The other thing I discovered in the shower this afternoon was that if you decide to use the shower massage wand as a water pic, and massage your uvula (that dangling thing in the back of your mouth), you will get to taste every meal you have had in the last 24 hours. Just a word of caution to you.

It has been a very busy weekend so far. Last night after I got done with work I went out and tried to use the weed whacker on the lawn. It was the first time to fire it up for the season so naturally it ran out of string the first 3 feet of trimming. Off to the Home Depot I went. I decided to get a better grade of string for my little electric trimmer. Maybe it would last longer. I get a roll of the commercial grade and headed home. It turns out there is a reason why they say it is for professionals. A landscaper has the intelligence to wear steel toe boots while on the job, unlike me who insists on doing all outdoor chores, be it mowing the lawn or shoveling snow in jean shorts and leather sandals.
Well as soon as I had it all loaded up, I started trimming the grass. It turns out the heavier string hurts a heckuva lot more when it snaps off and hits my foot than the thinner stuff my weed whacker was designed for. The lawn looks good, but now I have a slight limp.

Another side effect of this is now my kid says sonafabeach while playing with his toy lawnmower.

Good To The Last Drop.

You might not know this to look at me, but I am an amateur 'Gourmand"  In my day, I was known to put on big gourmet meals for up to 20 people at a time, and most of the time I was a big hit. I say most of the time because there was that one time I made ravioli's totally from scratch, stuffed with gorgonzola cheese and walnuts, topped with a home made marinara. I had good intentions but one of the ravioli's broke open in the water getting the blue cheese color all over rendering the pasta a sort of cadaver gray tint. Once the red marinara was poured over it, well it looked like a scene from a snuff film. 

I still make a pretty good cheesecake, No need to defend my actions on that one. 

Lately however my attention has been focused on coffee. I consider myself to be a coffee snob, none of the famous coffee houses are good enough for me. I have had what is arguably the best kind of coffee in the world, Kopi Luwak so I have very high standards. (if you don't know what it is, google it, you will be both amazed and horrified.) As a matter if personal opinion their offerings are not nearly as good as what I like to call "Markbucks".

You will never EVER catch me using a brand that is pre-ground and comes in a big plastic jug and costs less than $15.00 a pound. I consider those big blue or red jugs to be a little more than dirt. Why else do they call it "Ground Coffee"?

I only buy whole bean coffee, because I insist on grinding my own beans. I keep those whole coffee beans refrigerated. My grinder is a special German brand that I keep segregated from other spices and  odors so that it maintains the integrity that I so  strive for. I have a commercial grade espresso maker and all the special Italian syrups. I get special coffee brands from all over the world. People come to visit me just for the Vietnamese sua da, I am not ashamed to say that I am pretty much convinced that I make a one of the better cups of coffee around.

A couple of months ago I was served up a cup of coffee at a church gathering and it was just wonderful. It had full body, minimal bitterness and a wonderful hint of cinnamon. Ever since that day I have been looking for some gourmet beans that would in some small way taste as good as the church coffee. I tried getting Viennese Cinnamon from the coffee section of an organic shop and still it was not on the same level. I had even pondered the idea that perhaps, because it was in a church that God somehow intervened and made it special. I searched and searched and could not duplicate the experience.  They knew something that I did not.

My wife first came up with a simple solution that somehow escaped me. She told me to just ask the person in charge of coffee how they do it. How they do it indeed. What person in their right mind would let me in on the special technique they used to come up with the heavenly dark elixir that keeps me awake and alert and longing to come to church each Sunday?

I decided to give it a shot and humbly approached the man who was loading the 5 gallon coffee pots last Sunday. I told him how great his brew was and that I was very impressed with his barista skill. 

He looked at me strangely with one of those "What the hell are you talking about?" looks and said, "What are you talking about?" We were in church after all so he had to keep it clean. So I just asked what special brand he uses and was it available to the general public? "Yeah" he says. I went out to Wal-mart and got the big blue can of Maxwell house." Then I poured in a tablespoon of ground cinnamon."

I was aghast. I sputtered "M M M Maxwell House?" How could this be? " You mean freshly ground cinnamon?" Nope, not even close.

Not only was I put in my place by the coffee gods, I was totally shocked to realize that being a coffee snob had nothing to do with having discerning taste. I was so shook up that after all these years of spending hundreds upon hundreds of dollars, I could have been making coffee the way my parents have done.

Now here is the real telling part of my personality. I am in such denial over this that I have decided that I still need to search for the "good stuff' because my ego cannot handle the back pedaling and lowering itself to buying coffee off the shelf in a can or jug, much less a brand that is recognizable by anyone over at the local truck stop. 

I have already mentally blocked the whole idea that it is Maxwell House, I am sure they just are not telling the truth because it is a secret family recipe or something. Denial is sometimes a great thing. 

Especially for the me, the amateur coffee snob.