The Spoken Word

The other day I was doing my post-holiday returns and exchanges when I stopped off at Rubio’s to rest my feet and grab lunch. Before I even had the chance to take my first bite a flock of seagulls (aka Parley's Country Club housewives) made their perch at the table next to me. The squawking was relentless as they caught up on all the neighborhood gossip. I tried to block them out but started to recognize specific names as I reached the mid-point of my Chicken Burrito Especiale. My stomach no longer craved the Baja cuisine in my hands; I wanted to throw up as private details dripped from the beaks of these vicious ladies.

After a mental check that these names were more than coincidence or happenstance I tried to block them out like I do at church services. It does not matter the denomination, there are always the gaggle of ladies that try to make themselves feel better by trashing those around them. I know this from experience as a victim and a spectator. I gleaned who was on the verge of divorce, who had a gay son sent home from a mission, the Christmas ruined by a father’s gambling habits, their ironic wagers on when a cocaine addicted father would relapse, and on and on. By the time I forced the last bite in my mouth I wasn’t sure if I was going to cry or scream. I decided to let it go but changed my mind by the time I dropped my tray at the trash and refilled my Dr. Pepper.

With purpose in my step I approached the table of public nuisances. With a big smile on my face and camouflaged as if I could have been any of their sons I injected myself into their dialog.

“Pardon me?”

With initial annoyance they stopped and looked at me. It was like when a flock of birds are fighting over a bag of chips and someone approaches, it was a wide-eyed nervous pause. Mistaking me as a possible neighborhood resident, maybe a child of some unnamed family acquaintance, or even a member of the country club they all politely smiled and I even received a “aren’t you the son of…”

I interrupted. “Sisters, Jesus prompted me to come over here and tell you to stop talking Shit and love thy neighbor.”

Shock overtook the table while those at the surrounding tables took notice at the new found silence from our corner of the restaurant.

I kept smiling, raised my eyebrows with the tilt of my head, turned and walked towards the door. I left a wake of awkward silence trailing behind me. A silence that typically accompanies the instance of a parent spanking a child too forcefully in public. An awkward disdain from strangers has a knowledgeable sting that can slap reality into ones life. Awkward indeed, but not for me.

I headed to Barnes & Noble and contemplated if my actions were too harsh. No, they weren’t. These ladies needed a wake up call and I needed to be their table conversation at dinner that night. They would wonder in fear who I was and what I might repeat. I very well could have been that quiet gentleman that sits in the back of Sunday School and spectates. I could be that man indeed because I am.

Later…

While at the bookstore, with a copy of Entertainment Weekly in my hands, the short dark-haired lady had found me and found the strength to start a conversation.

I saw her out of the corner of my eye as she debated approaching me like a teenager does when they want to ask for car keys (after having wrecked a car the night before).

“How dare you?!” is all I heard. She was convinced that she could create a socially insufferable situation for me like the one she experienced 15 minutes earlier. With a look that I have perfected as a camp counselor dealing with difficult teens I lowered my brow and distinctly asked her, “you have no idea who I am, do you?”

She wavered with the possibility that I could cause her societal bruising.

She continued, “How dare you speak to me and my friends with such foul language!”

My response was succinct and in a hushed tone that made her upper lip curl.

“How dare YOU take advantage of another's situation and turn it into lunch hour gossip. You are ugly on the inside – loud, mean, and ugly. That’s not up for debate”

I placed the magazine back on the stand and her enraged reply went mute in my ears as I again turned and walked to the door.

Maybe those ladies will think twice about their group conversation the next time they are in public. Chances are they won’t. Creatures of habit rarely change their tune.

If anything they will start looking around more often at church for someone that looks a little like me. Too bad they won’t ever find me.

‘tis the Season

With an extended break from the office I decided to pick up my paint roller and finish what I started almost six weeks ago when I initially moved. With a paint sample in hand I headed to my local home improvement store to grab a gallon. I went with a knock-off shade of Restoration Hardware blue in hopes that it would compliment my knock-off Pottery Barn green living/dining room. With an hour of masking the molding and built-ins I cut in the edges and loaded up my roller. Mr. Miyagi would be proud of my skills with a brush.

Two coats later my initial doubt subsided and I was happy with the color balance. Here are a few pictures of how things turned out. The colors are not a perfect representation since the iPhone is 2 megapixels and without a flash. The pictures make it look a little bit Caribbean but it is more subdued in person. At some point I will have to start having people over for some house warming parties.

As for the rest of my holiday break I had plenty of quiet time. I slept in for the first time in years (past 8:30 is sleeping in for me but in the past week I haven’t gotten out of bed until 10:30). It was slothfully blissful. My sister and I spent Christmas with friends from San Diego and caught up on our nap schedule.

I had a moment of bravery and decided to go see the BodyWorlds exhibit. With sister in tow and a plastic bag in pocket we headed to the Leonardo to see the human body in all its glory (and strange positions). I made it through without passing out (girls faint, guys pass out) or having to vomit. When I saw the cross-section of the obese man I almost lost it but with a little Lamaze breathing and counting down from 10 I was back on track. After an hour we were shunted through the exit and concluded that it was nice of all the circus people to donate their bodies (there was the archer, some copulating acrobats, the swinging trapeze lady, and others). All in all I am glad that I got to see what I missed out on when the exhibit was in NYC. But just like a meal at an overhyped restaurant, you visit once – say you’ve been there and opt for another venue when it is brought up again.

The highlight was a contraband photo of the placenta. One girl had to explain to her boyfriend that Tom Cruise made a meal out of Kate’s and another group of teen girls traded stories of how their teacher in Draper made pills out of hers. All I could think about is how it was a round placenta lasagna, a freakin’ plasagna right there in the display case. Eeeewwww.


PS: The white elephant gifts found a new home and are greatly appreciated. They outlived their use protecting my car on the road – they looked too much like a bong collection.
PS: PS: I have busted through the 100 page mark on Atlas Shrugged. Only 950 or so more pages to go. Kirk might get it back by 2010. True Story

It's worth at least 1,000 Words

Thanks to Jesse Michael Nix for creating my Christmas card this year. It's like the sun, stare at it too long and you will go blind.

Merry Christmas and all those other holidays too (even Creolesmas).

Dirty Laundry & Literary Addiction

It’s nice to know I can go about three weeks without really having to do laundry. No, I don’t wear clothes multiple times to realize this feat. I just have ample amounts of clothing, dry cleaning, and substantial hamper(s). Eventually I would be forced to face the reality that I would have to use the onsite laundry at my new place. The day of “eventually” was today.

I clamored down three flights of stairs with a pocket full of quarters and flashback of the undergrad years. I had enough liquid detergent for one load so that cup full went to the darks. As for the whites, well that’s what bleach was invented for, right? Turns out the capacity of the washers was a little on the smaller side and only two were available. This whole sharing appliances will take some getting use to. I sacrificed a few items and sent them back to the hamper. Some things can stay dirty for a while (it’s why I have three bath towels and plenty of shirts). In the messy menagerie of sorting clothes I managed to get a sweater into the washer. It had to be stretched after the spin cycle and is on the DL until further notice. (Yes, I know that wool shrinks and smells when it gets wet – save your chastisements). Even better, one of the four dryers was busted so I had to make do with only one available machine.

In any case, the real reason I am writing about this is because it is my excuse for yet another attempt at reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. I borrowed the book from Kirk almost two years ago. When he passed it my way he mentioned that he forgot he even owned it until someone gave it back to him (seems that it takes a while for people to read it, I’m in good company). Kirk has assured me, on multiple occasions, that once you get past the first 100 pages it is literary addiction. I have a mental block around page 50 – it’s my stalling point in my previous three attempts.

Now back to how communal laundry is helping me overcome my weaknesses. With the extra cycles of drying and my fear of clothing being stolen I sat it out in the basement for two hours. Humidity levels rose drastically as the washers and dryers were in full swing. It was more eastern block bathhouse than tropical paradise but it wasn’t 24 degrees cold like the world was on the other side of the window. With earbuds in place and soothing music on repeat, I cracked open the dauntingly thick paperback. Within minutes the book sustained two direct hits from falling water bombs. I adjusted the location of the rusty, detergent-encrusted folding chair a few times to avoid the drips of pipe condensation. With minor interruptions I read with purpose and retention.

With the final buzzer sounding I transitioned from reading to folding. After packing up and ascending the stairs the book is back on the nightstand. This time the bookmark is on page 47, just shy of the previous page-turning blockade. I will pledge my efforts to plowing through the remaining pages to reach that Zionistic literary addiction Kirk has promised will be mine.

Fell free to poke and prod me on my progress, harassment is encouraged.

My Tuesday (a poem to rival Dr. Seuss)

This morning I woke to quite the surprise
A snow storm, a white-out, the kind I despise
I left the house early to grab my family, my sis
The kids, their luggage, to the airport, a flight not to miss

Sugarhouse roads were as slow like cold tar
An hour had passed, we didn't get far
When the plows pulled their heads out and roads began to clear
We arrived at the airport with a plane on the tarmac and more to fear

A trunk and backseat filled with stuff to unpack
A suitcase, a stroller, two car seats, kids, a knapsack
We crammed into an elevator with one minor hitch
We jammed the door and my niece repeated my "son of a bitch!"

The plane had left by the time we got to the gate
My sister started to cry, Delta we could not hate
The employee was nice and we rebooked for a day later
Jack Frost, you bastard, my family is a certified hater

We compensated with a fast drive back for a breakfast feast
To the Original Pancake House, feed me a Bacon Waffle at least
Dirty diapers all around and a nephew soaked in vomit
Fabreeze the damn car, scrub the leather with comet

As the day settled down I got word from IT
My laptop was fixed, my pants I did almost pee
The rest of the day was awash, remembered as a flub
What could I do but hit the gym, write this poem, fill my bathtub

May my prayers to the Patron Saint of Wednesday's be heard
Give me a relaxing day at work, for your day that comes third
I hope you enjoyed my poem, my ridiculous day
Be good, smile, and remember tomorrow is not Tuesday.

Life's Road Trips

It’s been one month to the day since my last update. I seem to have many “triumphant returns” to my blog. Well, triumphant in that fact that I actually come back to it and post yet another apology for the silence followed with my string of excuses.

So I last left off with my pending road trip from Houston to Salt Lake City with my dad. Obviously I survived the long trip. I have a few good stories from it and a renewed distaste for the highways of New Mexico, my apologies for the New Mexicans out there but really - what is up with your state?

A soon-to-be classic family story would be when my father and I were pulled over before crossing the Hoover Dam and had to unpack the truck. My father resisted the request for the search and even used the dreaded “B” word; no, not the one that ends in -itch but the one the one that ends in –omb! My life passed before my eyes as the Marshall insisted. I mentally saw us being taken into custody and detained indefinitely (I didn't even need a free readin’ by Miss Cleo to see what "could" have happened). True story.

As the journey continued we stopped in Cedar City, Utah to visit my uncle who had been placed in hospice for complications from cancer. It was hard to see him relegated to his bed but it was good to see him and chat for a short while.

After returning to SLC I had to get back up to speed at work and then find time to move myself across town. Yup, I have left my home of two years and relocated downtown to live solo.

The Thanksgiving holiday complicated moving my furniture and belongings since I had to drive to Missoula, Montana to visit the parent’s new homestead. Their small home was too small for the personalities contained in my immediate family (read as we had the usual fights that pre-date time itself). It was not my favorite holiday but I made the most of it – bought a HD flat panel to christen my new place in Utah (no sales tax in Montana, a $100 off coupon at Costco on top of the black Friday price, and having to make room in the back seat of my Accord made it worth it, if not uncomfortable).

After a week back at work I got word that my uncle had passed away. A true collective sigh of relief. My brother and father made the trek from Rexburg and Missoula, respectively. We headed down south for a two-day trip. Upon returning to SLC we got word that another family situation had arisen. This one had required my mom, older sister, and her kids to drive through the night to get to SLC from Montana. Without giving details that you obvioulsy don’t need to know – I had two funerals this week. What the (insert explicatives here)!

Needless to say, I was absent from work for most of the week. Then again, my new laptop had a corrupted hard drive so what was I really going to be doing at work? My MacBook Pro better get healthy soon or I will be taking it on my next trip to the disc golf course and will use it as a nice new aluminum putter. The picture was when it was new and I was still idealistic about running Windows on it.

I am grateful for friends and family that have stepped in to help carry my stress over the past month (hell, for the past year). I have been the recipient of the best hugs on record this week. Thanks for not prying when I wasn't ready to talk and thanks for listening when I finally opened up. Some people have no clue what I have been through this month and yet they are still there and don’t know how important their presence has meant to me. The dinners, lunches, and breakfasts have kept me grounded. Bowling, strolls to see the Christmas lights, and holiday concerts have all hit the spot. Having Hunter up from Texas was a big bonus - thanks for the distractions.

Here's a huge thanks to everyone for being there for me during this rough patch. I hope that I can be there for you when you need it. Until next time.