Wanna Hear Something Funny?

Santa's Hands

2010-12-23T11:19:00.002-06:00

For several years during the holidays, my dad worked as a Santa Claus for Goldsmith’s Enchanted Forest. The Enchanted Forest was an indoor winter wonderland, a family attraction that featured hundreds of extravagantly decorated Christmas trees, thousands of lights, kid-sized gingerbread villages, and a metric ton of fake snow. Murals featuring Christmas characters covered the walls; scenes like elves standing on each other’s shoulders to place a wreath around a reindeer’s neck. But the elves were sinister-looking and had a Nightmare Before Christmas quality to them. It was festive in a creepy sort of way.

But children and parents were willing to overlook the weird art and stand in line for an hour to see Dad. I mean, Santa. And he made a great Santa. He could be extremely jolly when the occasion called for it, and he loved the kids. Of course, neither of my parents told me at the time that he was playing Santa, but in retrospect, his coming home smelling like peppermint and urine should have raised some flags.

One Saturday, Mom promised to take me to see Santa. Like the hundreds of others there to see him, we waited in line for what seemed like days. As the line snaked around the North Pole Village, I could see children climbing onto his lap to make their requests. Some smiled shyly and whispered their Christmas wishes in his ear, while others screamed bloody murder until their parents apologetically whisked them away.

When my turn came, I climbed up on his lap like a pro. His right arm instinctively slid underneath my right arm, his left hand resting on my right knee. It felt familiar, but before I could put my finger on it, he launched into his Santa spiel, booming out a Ho! Ho! Ho! and asking me what I wanted for Christmas.

I knew exactly what I wanted — the Fisher Price airport, the one I had seen on TV a million times — but I was too distracted by his hands. Like his lap, they were strangely familiar, and not at all like what I expected Santa’s hands to look like. Santa’s hands would be white and pasty from doing nothing but eating cookies and ordering elves around. But these hands were brown and weathered, with small scars from past cuts and scrapes. They were strong, yet gentle, like iron wrapped in leather. I knew these hands.

These were the hands that kept me out of the reach of our cousins’ hateful German Shepherd. The hands that brushed soapy foam on my face so I could pretend to shave, and guided my hands as I learned to polish my shoes. Hands that would keep me steady as I learned to ride a bike, and hold me up in the waters of Sardis Lake, teaching me to swim. Hands that folded in prayer for me every night of my life, then and now. These were my father’s hands.

As I climbed down off of his lap, I gave him a knowing look, one that said, “I know who you are.” And I think he understood. As Mom and I walked back toward the parking garage, she asked me how my visit with Santa went.

“That wasn’t Santa,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Sure it was,” Mom said nervously. Mom was always a horrible liar.

“No, that was my daddy.”

Later that same Christmas season, Santa visited my kindergarten class just days before we were to be out for the holidays. He burst through the door and issued an authentic, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Merry Christmas!” All the other children shrieked and rushed to surround him. I simply put my hands on my hips and rolled my eyes.

“Daa-aad,” I whined, as if embarrassed by his presence. “What are you doing here?” Instantly I was swept out of the room like the president being whisked away by the Secret Service after a failed assassination attempt. I was encouraged (read: threatened) to play along. Which I did gladly after Mom and my teacher Mrs. Simms explained that Dad was here as a favor to the real Santa Claus, who couldn’t make it because he was, of course, busy making toys.

Merry Christmas!

~Alan

A Quick Thanksgiving in Memphis

2010-11-29T14:54:00.003-06:00

It was a little after midnight when we pulled into the dark driveway. Six hours on the road had left Mary and I glassy-eyed and sore. As we opened the back hatch on the car to start unloading, the porch light came on and Mom stuck her head out the back door. They’d waited up for us. They’d both been excited that we were coming to stay with them for Thanksgiving this year. Mom had been cleaning since August when I’d told her we were coming.

We usually stay with Mary’s parents when we go to Memphis, which is becoming an increasingly rare trip due to our work schedules. It’s not an intentional slam against my parents by staying with Mary’s; it’s just where we usually end up. But this year things would be different. Just how different we were yet to discover. Mom and Dad are in their late seventies, and it takes them a little longer to do things.

For instance, one of the first mornings we were there, as I was on my way to the shower, Mom told me that Dad wanted me to take a look at the showerhead. “He said it’s leaking water all over the back of the wall. If you have time today, take a look at it,” she said. I told her I had plenty of time and I’d check it out. When I went into the bathroom, Dad was waiting for me. I turned on the shower, and as it ran, one single bead of water brimmed up over the lip of the handheld fixture and ran down the hose.

“See that leak?” Dad said. “I was thinking we could put some of that, um…” he trailed off. Dad forgets his words sometimes and it takes him a while to express a thought, so I tried to help.

“Teflon tape?” I offered.

“No, uh, we need to put some, uh…oh, you know…” then he walked off midsentence. I felt bad. He couldn’t think of the word he needed and was too embarrassed to continue. Moments later, though, he returned with a caulk gun.

“Caulk!” he announced.

“You want me to caulk the showerhead?”

“No, I want you to caulk the top of the knob fixture so water doesn’t run in behind it.”

Never mind the fact that it already has a rubber backing on it to protect it because it’s in a shower; I caulked it. Poorly. (Sadly, I’ve never been much of a caulker.)

Later, Mom told me she wanted me to show her how to make the asparagus dish I had made last time they visited us, asparagus, red onion, and mushroom sautéed together with butter and herbs. Sure, no sweat. I mentioned picking up some asparagus, and she said she already had some — in a can. I must have made a face when she said “can” because she added, “Well, I don’t know how to cook the fresh kind!” How do you get to be seventy-seven and not know how to cook fresh asparagus? I told her it was super-easy. She wanted to know how long it would need to cook. Would it need more than a half hour or so? I explained that it would only take about ten minutes.

“Ten minutes?” she asked, wrinkling up her face. “Will it get done?”

“Yes. It’s asparagus, Mom, not raw chicken.” Why do they think it takes so long? Then I remembered the broccoli they prepared in my childhood — cooked until it was limp and gray.

Then she said she would be cooking a ham. She had bought one of those big spiral-sliced jobs that come fully cooked. All you have to do is heat it and add the packaged glaze that comes with it. Mary and I went out for a while to run some errands. When we returned later that afternoon, the ham was resting on the counter. I lifted the foil, expecting to find succulent pink meat. Instead, the ham was bone dry, reduced to an almost jerky-like state.

Mom called from her chair in the living room, “That ham may be a little dry. I cooked it like it said, but it dried out.”

“How long did you cook it?” I asked, flicking a crusty spiral-sliced flap.

“Two and a half hours,” she replied.

What?! Mary and I looked at each other in alarm, with that look that says both, “Oh my God!” and “Don’t speak!” all in one. Two and a half hours? It was an eight-pound fully cooked ham. It had languished, uncovered, in my mother’s oven for more than twice the amount of time it needed. And now it lay on her counter, charred and withered, like a tiny little burn victim.

One of several things she wanted me to do while I was there was clean the light fixture that hangs over their kitchen table. “It shouldn’t take more than an hour,” she reassured me. An hour? In what atmospheric conditions? We’re cleaning a light fixture in your kitchen, not repairing a damaged rocket booster during a spacewalk.

“An hour?” I asked.

“Well, don’t we need to take the fixture down?” she said.

“No,” I said with a shrug. “We’ll just wipe it with a damp rag.”

“Oh,” she said. She sounded almost disappointed. “I guess that’ll work, too.”

I wrung out a wet rag and wiped the fixture, the globes, and the base, replacing the dust with shiny polished brass. It took about ten minutes.

It was a good visit. I enjoyed getting to spend time with Mom and Dad, talking about the old days and reminiscing about family. But unlike all the other things that week, it didn’t take nearly as long as I would have liked.

~Alan

Memoir Excerpt – Dead in the Street

2010-11-16T20:07:00.001-06:00

It was only a few weeks after providing medical treatment at a wreck that I drove up on an accident that had just happened on my street. I saw a girl lying in the road and a crowd forming at the curb. I pulled over and hopped out of the truck. I had been on a high since helping out at the first wreck, and I expected to swagger up and be the hero again. As I got closer I spoke to a crossing guard, an older woman who had come over to keep the onlookers back.

“I’m a medic in the Army. What happened?” I asked in a very official tone.

“She got hit by a car.” She put a hand on my shoulder. “She’s dead. You can’t do anything for her, honey.”

I kneeled over her body, and the gravity of the situation was like a vacuum, sucking every thought out of my head, every word out of my mouth. She was already dead and there was nothing I could do. A wide trail of bright red blood, still wet and glistening, painted the path in the street where her body had slid after the impact.

“How did it happen?” I asked quietly.

She was thirteen, a seventh-grader at the local high school, a dingy white building just two blocks from where her lifeless body now lay in full view of the horde of students that peeked over and around each other to get a good look at the only dead body some of them would ever see outside of a funeral home. She had gotten out of school only moments earlier and was walking with her friends when she spotted the car of an older friend coming and decided to play a prank on him, something she would never live to regret.

As he approached, she crouched between two cars parked on the side of the street, waiting until he was only twenty or thirty feet from her before leaping in front of it, arms flailing, a move that she had hoped would scare him and make him swerve wildly, but he couldn't swerve — or stop — in time. Now she lay in the street, her petite body buckled, eyes open and staring at nothing, textbooks and notebooks strewn about, a thin river of blood trailing from her head and pooling at the base of the curb.

I went home, got in the shower, and cried. I squatted down in the tub and as the water ran over me I cried deep, hard sobs that forced the air out of my lungs until I was almost heaving. It was the oddest time to notice that I was actually thin enough now to squat sideways in the shower, and I laughed through my tears for a moment. Then her ashen face came back to me and I sank again and wept for a girl I had never met.

Mennonite Date Night

2010-10-17T11:34:00.001-05:00

“A Mennonite restaurant?” I asked, looking at Mary with my head cocked to the side.

“Yes. It’s supposed to be wonderful,” she said. “They have kind of a limited menu, but it’s all homemade and I’ve heard just . . .” hands over her heart now, “incredible things about it.”

Neither of us had ever been to a Mennonite, well, anything before, much less a restaurant. We’d seen them at the craft fairs or around town, women in modest shin-length dresses, sparse makeup if any, and the traditional black or white covering on the back of their head. But a restaurant run and staffed entirely by Mennonites? We weren’t sure what to expect.

“So, do we need to brush up on our early American vernacular?” I asked. “Do I need to be like, ‘Wife, what wilt thou have for thy entree?’, or, ‘Miss, couldst thou top off my sweet tea when thy time affords thee an opportunity?’”

“You’re an idiot,” Mary said. “For one thing, I don’t even think I’m supposed to talk. I think you’re supposed to order for me since you’re the man.”

Then a look of concern spread across her face. “Are they going to make me wear one of those doily things on my head?”

“What?!”

“You know, those doily thingies they wear on the back of their head. Am I going to have to wear one of those?”

“What, do you think it's going to be like those restaurants that require jackets on gentlemen?” I asked. “You think they’re going to have spare doilies for heathen women that come in without them?”

Mary pouted, “Shut up, I don’t know.” Then she giggled. “Do you think the schedule is posted on the bulletin at their church?” Then: “Or that we’ll have to put our tips in an offering plate?” She snorted to herself while I shook my head.

“Thou art indeed a heathen, wife.”

So it was with mixed expectations that we visited The Wooden Spoon in Gentry, Arkansas. It’s a small restaurant, but very charming. A small area with gifts and baked goods lines the inside of the front wall. Zucchini bread, scones, Rollkuchen (fritters), and streusel cakes were just a few of the items available. And our apprehension about how to behave was lifted when we saw one of the modestly-adorned waitresses texting on her iPhone.

Once we were seated, we perused the menu. It was limited to less than a dozen selections. Catfish, chicken, pasta, standard fare. We each ordered a cup of potato soup and the catfish dinner. The soup came in a coffee cup, which, like all the other dinnerware, was speckled enamel. We discovered after she’d left that our waitress had forgotten our spoons. Trouble was, we weren’t sure which one she was. They were all built and dressed so similarly.

“Is it her?” Mary asked, pointing to a young woman carrying a tray of food.

“I have no idea,” I said. Sadly, I couldn’t have picked her out of a police lineup if she’d stolen my wallet. And describing her would be equally useless. “Yes, officer, she was tall, fair-skinned, light-haired, wore a long, plain dress, and a black doily on the back of her head.” Every waitress in the joint fit that description.

Fortunately for us, she came back and asked if everything was all right. When we told her we needed spoons, she smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand and said, “Duh! I’m so sorry.”

Everything was wonderful: the food, the service, the relaxed atmosphere. And the dessert selections nearly outnumber the entrees. Bumblebee Pie (a mix of berries), French Silk Pie, Rhubarb Cream Pie, Coconut Pie, Dutch Apple Cake, Bread Pudding, and more I can’t recall.

Mary ordered the French Silk Pie and I the Bread Pudding. Both came quickly and were positively ginormous. Her “slice” of pie — a piece so large that if it were a rock it could be used to bludgeon a man — was drizzled with chocolate swirls and topped with a creamy whipped fluff. My bread pudding was just as big and smothered in a buttery, sugary, cinammon-y sauce that I am not ashamed to say I wanted very much to pour over myself.

It was a fantastic experience, and we will go back again and again. The staff was gracious and attentive and the food was fabulous. So the next time you find yourself in Gentry, Arkansas on a Friday evening, stop by The Wooden Spoon.

Thou wilt love it.

~Alan

You Can’t Make This Stuff Up

2010-08-09T20:10:00.001-05:00

Mary and I went to see Dinner for Schmucks this weekend. Allow me to give you a lightning quick synopsis so you’ll better understand the details.

Tim (Paul Rudd) is an aspiring executive who’s invited to a dinner with other execs at the big boss’s place. The catch is, everyone has to bring an idiot for the group to laugh at. Barry (Steve Carell), a man who creates dioramas with dead mice, is Tim’s idiot. OK, moving on.

It’s a matinee, so the theater is not crowded in the least. 2 ladies in their seventies hobble in and look around for a seat. There are over 100 unoccupied seats all over the theater, yet they choose to sit in the seat right next to me. Mary and I look at each other as if to say, “Seriously?”

Now, I’m a big guy. When I’m at the movies, I need a little space to spread out. And in a theater that’s less than a third full, that shouldn’t be an issue. But Granny Moses has already made herself comfortable, including commandeering my armrest. This is not going to be good.

As the previews begin, she says to her friend (loudly), “I hope this is good. Carol said it looked like it would be good. But she told us that that 2012 movie was good, and I thought it was just awful.”

Her friend looks at her and asks, “What 2012 movie?”

“You remember, the one about the end of the world.”

“Did we see it together? I don’t remember that.”

“Yes we saw it together! Don’t you remember? Carol was going to go with us but she didn’t get back from the doctor’s office in time to meet us.”

“What was she at the doctor for?”

At this point, Mary leans forward and gives them “the look,” which they completely don’t get.

When Steve Carell makes his first appearance, my seat buddy remarks out loud to her friend, “He’s so funny. I just love him.”

Mary squeezes my leg.

The movie progresses, and the screen fills with close-ups of Barry’s elaborate dioramas — dead mice dressed as little people in suits, ties, hats, and glasses, in realistic surroundings.

In the darkness I hear, “Awww… aren’t those cute? I’d like to have some of those to put out on my coffee table.”

Dear God, make it stop.

In one scene Barry says his wife left him because he lost her clitoris. When pressed for details, he explains, “I don’t know, but she was always mad because I couldn’t find it.”

Granny Moses leans toward her friend and says, “What did he say he lost?”

“I think he said he lost someone named Doris.”

“Oh. I bet that’s his wife’s name.”

By now Mary and I are in tears, shaking with laughter.

The movie eventually ends and as the credits roll, Barry brings the audience up to speed (with dioramas, of course) on what’s taken place since the movie ended. One of the happily-ever-afters is that Barry has a new lady friend. And with tiny dead mice in a bedroom diorama on the screen, he proudly reports that he’s been able to find her clitoris.

“Oh, good!” my neighbor says. “He found Doris.”

~Alan

Girly Man

2010-08-03T21:14:00.001-05:00

OK, I admit it. I’m a little different than other guys. Most of the guys I know like to talk about guy things. Manly things. Who’s playing in the PGA. How to repair a clutch on a ’79 Mustang. Which college team is the top seed (whatever that means). I don’t know anything about automotive repair and I loathe sports, so I’m no help in either of those areas. I am, however, knowledgeable and competent if you’re looking to repurpose a door as a headboard, find an area rug that goes with your artwork, or prepare a delicious pot of Coq au Vin.

I have an idea where this mindset and behavior might have come from. I was the youngest of 4 children, the one child that my mother had vowed to raise herself, without help from her mother. Consequently I spent a lot of time with Mom doing things like laundry and cooking. When I graduated from US Army boot camp, I was the only one of 50 or so guys who knew how to iron my Class A uniform. And the first week Mary and I were married, she was shocked that I hung my clothes up or put them in the hamper instead of leaving them on the floor or the couch.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not apologizing for being this way. I love the fact that I can tell a female coworker her shoes are cute and mean it. I think it’s great that I can breeze through the grocery store while other guys are hopelessly lost because they don’t know what a leek looks like or where the sliced almonds are. I find humor in the blank looks on other men’s faces in flea markets and antique shops as their wives chatter excitedly about finials and chargers and curios and settees, and the husbands’ faces practically shout, “What the hell is she talking about?”

Not only do I know exactly what the wives are talking about, I know that the punched tin lamp and the Victorian quilt she’s buying are going to look positively hideous in the contemporary bedroom she’s been talking about. Fine. I admit that I have definite opinions about interior design. I also admit that I like to shop (yes, really). I admit that I get excited about French imported soap. And yes, I admit that I’m dying to see Eat, Pray, Love.

At the end of the day, though, I’m still a guy. I still love a good action movie with plenty of gunfire, explosions, and naked women running around, but I’m equally happy watching Phantom of the Opera. I still play air guitar — badly — to .38 Special and Aerosmith, but the beauty of the theme from Schindler’s List brings tears to my eyes no matter how many times I hear it. I still love pizza and an ice-cold beer, but I get positively giddy when my crème brulée turns out just right.

I consider myself fortunate to enjoy both ends of the spectrum, both hemispheres of the delicate yin/yang balance. I'm sure some of my manly-man friends will have trouble understanding that. Some men have preconceived notions about guys that like to shop and decorate and cook. But that's OK. They're entitled to their opinion. I'll even help them out the next time they're in the grocery store and can't find ginger root.

~Alan

Spice, Spice, Baby...

2010-07-25T10:42:00.002-05:00

God bless my wife, Mary. When I’ve repeatedly promised and forgotten to do something, she doesn’t yell or nag. She simply gives me a gentle reminder that it needs doing. Such is the case with our ever-expanding spice cabinet. In an effort to broaden our culinary horizons by preparing different cuisines, I’ve been adding to it consistently for some time now. We started off with the spices everyone has in their collection: Thyme, Parsley, Garlic Powder, and the like — what I like to refer to as the khaki slacks of the spice world, meaning they go with most anything.

But when we wanted to make Mexican one night, I bought Cumin. Then there was French night, which meant I needed Tarragon. Then I found an Italian recipe that called for Rosemary. With each new dish came the need for a new spice or two. More and more of them kept creeping into the cabinet. Basil, Curry Powder, Marjoram, Coriander, Garam Masala, Chives, Dill, Turmeric, Celery Seed, Ginger (ground and candied), Onion Powder, Chipotle Powder, Sage, Paprika, Chinese Five Spice, Cardamom ... and that’s only the bottom shelf. Mary asked me to clean it out, organize it, do something with it.

I looked at spice racks at different stores and online, but 1.) they all come with spices. I don’t need more spices. I don’t have room for the spices I have. 2.) The most I’ve ever seen a spice rack hold is 20 jars, and I passed that number long ago. I considered buying individual empty spice jars, but at three to five dollars each I’d have to sell a baby on the black market to collect enough to contain the culinary arsenal spread across my table now. But the other day a wonderful thing happened. Mary sent me a text saying that she had gone out and purchased three different types of spice racks. When I got home from work, she said, I could decide which one I liked, keep all three, get more of one, whatever.

This is what she does. She takes care of me so well and there are no words to tell her how much I appreciate her patience. Maybe I’ll cook her a nice dinner. I have a great recipe for Jamaican Jerk Chicken. I just need to get some Allspice...

Memoir Excerpt - Church

2010-07-20T07:20:00.003-05:00

The memoir is coming along, but I'm constantly trying to convince myself that it's not arrogant to think that someone would want to read a book about my life. My real purpose is simply to share the funny things that happened along the way and make people laugh. Here's another chapter excerpt I hope will do just that. I'd love to hear your comments. Enjoy!

Georgian Hills Baptist Church was a decidedly Southern Baptist church. The people who attended there were no-nonsense Christians. No drinking, no dancing, and no smoking—except for Mr. Willis, an older man who was regularly chastised by the several of the old church ladies for setting a bad example by smoking right out in front of the sanctuary where everyone could see him.

The church started small, and I don’t really remember much about the original building except for the small sanctuary that might have seated 100 people. A center aisle stretched from the back doors to the altar. The wooden pews on either side creaked when we sat down or moved. The back of each pew had built-in holders for tithe envelopes and those tiny little pencils that were impossible to write with, holes for your little plastic communion cup, and bookracks that held copies of the Baptist Hymnal. And if it wasn’t in the Baptist Hymnal, we didn’t sing it.

Church was painfully boring for a kindergartener. To pass the time, I doodled on the back of envelopes or on a sheet of paper Mom had been clever enough to tuck into her Bible, but more often than not, I ended up falling asleep. This usually resulted in a subtle nudge from Mom, but one time I woke up as Dad was carrying me out of the sanctuary hissing, “Alan! Wake up, son.” I had seen other children get carried out for misbehaving and knew they got a whipping, but I didn’t know what I had done.

I started to cry about the time we reached the back doors, and as he set me down outside the sanctuary I began apologizing profusely, even though I had no idea why I had been removed. I was expecting Dad to remove his belt and whip me, but instead he sat in one of the wingback chairs in the foyer and laughed, covering his mouth so he wouldn’t be heard. I finally mustered up the courage to ask, “Am I in trouble?”

“No, son, you’re not in trouble,” Dad said, still chuckling. “I had to bring you out here ‘cause you were pootin’ in your sleep so loud everybody could hear it.”

A wave of relief coursed through me, then horror. “I was pooting?” I asked, my face burning from embarrassment. “Everyone heard me pooting?” There was no way I could go back in there now. Even though unintentional, I had passed gas in God’s house, in front of God’s people. Were I to go back in now He would surely smite me. Had I known my body was going to turn on me in the form of audible emissions, I never would have dozed off. I could never fall asleep in church again, that much was clear.

(Un)Happy Father's Day

2010-06-21T09:23:00.002-05:00

It’s uncanny. I posted something just days ago about the parents we saw last weekend that couldn’t control their kids, and then this weekend I ran into their exact opposite. To be clear, when I said control your kids I just meant keep them from running amok. I didn’t mean verbally analyze every move they make with a critical tone.

Mary and I are sitting in Outback Steakhouse Saturday evening. The hostess seats a family at the table next to us. It’s a mom, dad, and four boys, the youngest about 9, the oldest about 13. Before they even get their menus open, Dad turns to the oldest boy and says, “Are we going to have a problem in here, or are you going to be able to keep your attitude in check?” The boy mumbles something, and Dad continues, “Well, you need to tell your face and your body that you don’t have an attitude problem, because your body language is projecting as if you do. You’re all hunched over. Sit up straight like a man, Josh. Make eye contact with the people around you. How many times have I told you how important eye contact is?” The boy engages the other members of the table, and Dad seems satisfied for a moment.

Then he begins to watch the other three boys across the table, who are playing the games on the disposable placemats. The boys are having fun and behaving themselves, but he can’t help himself. “Connor, are you watching what you’re doing? You put your X in the corner. That means Steven can put his O here and by the time you get one row started, he’ll have two rows started, which means he’ll win.” Then to the other boy, “Tyler, what are you playing down there? Ah, the maze. Let’s see how you’re doing. Hmmm. You see this section right here? It doesn’t go anywhere. Did you follow it first before you drew your line? You didn’t, did you? That’s why you’re going to get stuck in this spot here. This is what I mean when I say ‘think ahead’.”

At this point Mary and I are staring, wide-eyed, at each other over our drinks. It’s a look that says, “Oh. My. God.” I lower my drink and mouth the words control much? and Mary giggles. This guy is the antithesis of the dad from the weekend before. I can’t even imagine this dad being affectionate, what with his rigid demeanor and clipped speech, much less letting a kid crawl on him.

The waitress arrives to take their drink orders. Dad orders a draft beer and gives specific directions on how he wants the head. They also order a Bloomin’ Onion under Dad’s direction. When it arrives, Dad makes sure that everyone has some. Whether they want it or not. The youngest boy agrees to try it, but he doesn’t want the dipping sauce. Dad responds, “Either you take some sauce or you don’t get any at all.” The boy is fine with that, as he didn’t want any to begin with. But Dad ends up forcing the sauce on him anyway.

As they decide on entrees, on of the boys mentions that he wants a steak. Dad says, “No, you’ll order from the kids’ menu.” Mom speaks for the first time of the evening and mentions quietly that it might be all right if the boy wanted a steak. Dad snaps back at her, “Either he orders off of the kids’ menu or he doesn’t order. That’s it. End of discussion.” Mom lowers her head and stares at the table.

I’m beginning to get a more accurate picture of this guy. I can imagine him requiring Mom to arrange the canned goods in their pantry with three-quarters of an inch between cans or making sure that the towels on the towel rod are even and straight like the freaky husband in Sleeping with the Enemy. He wants to make sure everyone knows that he is the one in control. That he and he alone makes the decisions for this family.

As the boys order (from the kids menu), he badgers them while they choose condiments. “Tyler, do you want ketchup and mustard? Then tell her what you want. She has other tables to take care of. Josh, speak up, she can’t hear you when you mumble. And if I have to tell you again to make eye contact...” Then he instructs the waitress about the condiments they order for their burgers. “Ma’am, what’s your name? Shelley? Shelley, go easy on the mustard and ketchup, ok? Otherwise they’ll make a mess.” Then he cautions Shelley about his baked potato. “Shelley? On my potato, make sure it’s baked really well. The last time it was a little firm in the middle. Oh, and you can put butter and chives on it, but bring the sour cream on the side.”

As I sign our check and Mary and I get up to leave, he’s still going at it with the boys. “Connor, can you tell me why your elbows are on the table? You know we don’t put our elbows on the table. Tyler, your napkin goes in your lap. Josh, if I have to tell you again to sit up straight, we’re going to have a problem. Steven, stop playing with your straw wrapper.” The last thing I hear him say as we round the corner is, “You’re making it very hard for me to enjoy my Father’s Day dinner.”

What a jackass.

~Alan

Smack the Monkey

2010-06-14T11:06:00.007-05:00

“Boo!” Mary and I are at a local restaurant, and a little boy in the booth behind us is creeping up over the seat repeatedly. Our lack of participation in his game hasn’t deterred him. Obviously he’s under the mistaken impressions that 1.) Yes, we would love to play, and 2.) We’re hard of hearing. So he does it again. Louder. “BOO!” His mom and dad are right there, but neither of them has said a word to him. He’s climbing in the booth, under the table, and on his parents. The rare moments that he is still are spent leaning over the booth, elbows resting on the back of the seat as if he’s captivated by our conversation.

His younger sister, an adorable little girl with blues eyes and blond hair, done up in a top-of-the-head pigtail like Pebbles from the Flintstones, is sitting in a high chair at the end of the table spreading barbecue sauce on her face as if preparing for a voodoo ritual. Mom and Dad are carrying on a conversation as if the kids aren’t even there. “BOOOO!!” My eyes meet Mary’s, and we share a look that says, “Really?”

I love kids. Truly, I do. I believe that kids are a blessing. However, parents have a responsibility to their kids to teach their kids how not to be hellions. Don’t get me wrong; I know kids will be kids and have boundless energy, and that’s fantastic. But there’s a time and a place for it, and this is neither. This is apparently an ideology that this mom and dad have yet to embrace. As they’re eating, three ladies come in, one with an infant. They know Mom and Dad, so the ladies stand at the table and chat while the boy climbs all over his dad as if he were a jungle gym. And Dad is completely unphased. I’ve seen animal handlers exhibit this same conversational casualness as the creature they’re holding darts back and forth. The difference? Dad is not Jack Hanna, and the boy is not a capuchin monkey (at least in theory).

This is not a behavior you just have to accept because it’s natural. Smacking a capuchin monkey on the ass is likely to result only in your being bitten (plus, it’s just plain wrong—on a lot of levels), but I suspect the same action might just get this young man’s attention and curb his freewheeling attitude. It certainly worked for me when I was a kid. Usually all it took was a look or a word from my father, but in the event those were unsuccessful, a firm hand always did the trick.

As the adults chat, Mom takes Pebbles, who is now covered in barbecue sauce, out of her high chair and sets her on the ground. She looks at Mom, giggles, and totters off toward other tables. Mom doesn’t notice until a waiter almost dumps a tray of food trying not to step on the child. Mom is apparently shocked that this three year old would not stand still at the exact place she set her down. After retrieving her, the conversation continues. Monkey Boy is now climbing on the high chair. He’s standing on top of it—not just in the seat; he’s standing on top of the rails. None of the adults says a word. I’m waiting for him to lose it and hit the ground like Wile E. Coyote, but he manages to avoid a fall.

In the mean time, Pebbles has managed to unfurl about 60 feet of paper towels from a roll that sits on the table, covering each one with little barbecue fingerprints. Dad notices, but simply rolls the towels back onto the roll, fingerprints and all. He passes her to Mom because Monkey Boy is climbing on him again. Mom sets her down on the ground, where she promptly stumbles off to find adventure. She makes it all the way to another table this time before Mom notices. This happens several times, and Mom is just as surprised the third and fourth time that a three year old would wander off. After about 20 minutes, the ladies finally leave and mom and Dad pack up to leave.

As Dad is paying the bill and Mom is scrubbing Pebbles’s face, Monkey Boy spots an elderly man with a cane and a straw brimmed Panama hat waiting for a takeout order.
“What’s that stick for?” he asks him.
“This?” the old man says, lifting his cane. “This helps me walk.”
“Why do you need help walking?”
“Because I’m old.”
Monkey Boy nods, then eyes the hat curiously. “Are you a cowboy?”

The old man laughs. “No, I’m not a cowboy.”

“Oh. OK, bye.”

Neither of the parents even so much as acknowledges the old man. He’s just another object that provides entertainment so they don’t have to. Mom and Dad strap the kids into car seats in the back of a huge SUV, climb in, and drive away.

The moral of the story? If you’re going to have children, be a parent. Otherwise, please do the rest of us a favor and just get a capuchin monkey.

~Alan

Letters from Home: Uncle Bud at Disneyworld

2010-06-04T07:33:00.002-05:00

The latest in the series of unfortunate situations my family is all too familiar with. Enjoy...

~Alan

Dear son,

How are you? It’s been a while since we wrote. We’re doing pretty fair, but we had kind of a rough few days. I don’t remember if we told you we were going to Disneyworld for Memorial Day weekend, but we did. One of our church members, Madeline Vanarsdall, died about a month ago. She owned the Beauty Barn down there off of 196 and the Klassy Kuts over in Somerville. Apparently in her will she left a whole mess of money to the church, with one condition. Part of it had to be used to take the first and second grade Sunday school class to Disneyworld.

After that, the church could do whatever they saw fit with the rest. The will said that Madeline never got to go to Disneyworld herself (her portable dialysis machine would only run for a couple three hours before she had to charge it, and I guess they don’t have outdoor plugs down there) and since she never could go, she figured she could at least pay somebody else’s way. So last Friday afternoon we loaded up the church bus and took off. There was 11 kids and 5 adults.

Me and your daddy, Shirley and Jimmy Don McQuiddy, and your Uncle Bud. He says to tell you hi, by the way. He’s got him a job working in the body shop down at the Ford dealership. He’s a good man, but he’s just not quite all there. We didn’t expect he’d be much of a help with the kids, but he’s been wanting to meet Snow White ever since he saw her in the Ice Capades down in Selmer year before last (we didn’t have the heart to tell him it was just a group of students from the junior college) so we took him along to help drive. We were planning on staying the weekend and coming back on Monday, but we had a little situation come up.

Once we got all the tickets and got everybody inside, Bud was about to come unglued wanting to meet Snow White. So we decided to let him go his own way and the other four adults would tend to the kids. That Disneyworld is something else, I tell you what! We stood in line for the longest time to get on some ride that wasn’t nothing but some tea cups spinning around. I had to go to the bathroom after that, and the line for the bathroom was near about as long as the one for the rides.

After I got out, we were deciding where to go next when a couple of security guards come tearing past us with their little walkie talkies just blaring. They said something about an incident with Snow White. We figured it must have had something to do with Bud, so we told the McQuiddys to watch the kids and we went off to see if we could find out what was going on. It’s hard getting through that place just walking. I don’t know how them security fellas was able to run flat out like they were. It took us a few minutes to find the commotion, but when we did, it was a little worse than we expected.

There was about ten or twelve security folks standing around, and Uncle Bud was on the ground on his belly with his hands cuffed behind his back. His face was red as a beet and he was yelling at the top of his lungs, “That ain’t the real Snow White!! Get your money back! That ain’t the real Snow White!!” There was a couple of dozen little girls there all dressed like Snow White, and the louder Bud yelled, the more they cried. They finally had to mace him to shut him up. We pushed through the crowd and explained who we were and that Bud was about two fat ladies short of an opera, and they let us through.

Snow White was sitting over on a bench crying and talking to one of the security fellas, and a couple of them little midgets what lives with her were standing off to the side. The security folks were asking how it happened. Apparently Bud was standing in line to meet Snow White with all them little girls. He was the only adult there without a kid. When it came his time to talk to her, he asked her to sign his t-shirt, which she did. While she was signing, he told her how much he enjoyed seeing her at the Ice Capades in Selmer.

When she told him that she didn’t ice skate and had never been to Selmer, he started putting two and two together—only, in Bud’s mind, two and two don’t always equal four—and he figured she was a fake. That’s when he started yelling that she wasn’t the real Snow White. He kinda got in her face a little bit and one of them midgets told him to back off. Now Bud don’t take real kindly to being told what to do, especially by a midget in pointy shoes. So he shoved the little fella down and his big old fiberglass head thunked against the concrete.

Then another one of them midgets shook his little pick at Bud, and Bud told him he was going to “break that handle off in his ass.” The little guy took a swing anyway, but he missed. Then Bud rared back and smacked him square in the head and dropped that midget like a sack of dirt. Snow White screamed, and then all of them little girls screamed and scattered like little blue and yellow cockroaches. That’s about the time the security folks got there. They tackled Bud and handcuffed him and he was hollering about Snow White the whole time.

The security folks were nice enough to let us ride in their little golf carts over to the security office with them. We were a sad looking little parade, let me tell you. Snow White, with her makeup running and eyes red from crying, them two little midget fellas with their big old dented heads, and Bud, snot-nosed and watery-eyed from being maced. When we got to the office, your daddy asked if he could have a minute with Bud before they called the real police to come get him. He was still mouthing off about how he was going to sue Mr. and Mrs. Disney for false advertising.

Your daddy went over to him and whispered something in his ear. Bud looked up at him and asked if he was sure and he nodded. Bud’s face turned white as a sheet, and all of a sudden he was apologizing to everybody in security, Snow White, and even the midgets. He told them how bad he felt for what he did and asked if there was anything he could do to make up for it. He even offered to pull the dents out of them big fiberglass heads. After talking it over, the park decided not to charge him, but they did ban him from the park for a year.

When we got back to the hotel, I asked your daddy what he said to Bud in the security office that made him change his tune so quick. He said he’d just told him that this was the real Snow White, not the one in he’d seen in Selmer. After all, why would the real Snow White be in Selmer when she lives at Disneyworld? Your daddy’s a pretty smart old man. Well, I guess I ought to run for now. You take care of yourself, and we’ll see you later.

Love,

Mom & Dad

Recipe Box - Pan-Seared Tilapia and Summer Spaghetti

2010-05-26T13:08:00.001-05:00

I posted a photo on Facebook the other day of a meal I had cooked, and I got a lot of comments on it. So for those who are interested, here's my recipe...

Pan-Seared Tilapia in a Ginger-Shallot Butter with Summer Spaghetti
Serves 4

Summer Spaghetti

Ingredients

2 cups diced tomatoes (Romas are great for this, or just used canned)
½ cup roasted peppers (roast your own or buy them in a jar) - optional
2 cloves of chopped garlic (or, if you’re me? 4 cloves)
1 tablespoon red wine vinegar
A handful of fresh basil leaves (just the leaves, please)
10 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
Half of a 14.5 oz. box of angel hair pasta (I use Barilla Whole Grain)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Throw the tomatoes, peppers, and garlic into a NASA-hot skillet with a tablespoon of olive oil. Toss them for 2-3 minutes, just enough to get them hot.

In a large bowl, mix the tomatoes, peppers, garlic, vinegar, basil, and olive oil. Let it sit for 10-15 minutes for the flavors to get their groove on.

Cook the pasta in salted boiling water according to instruction on the pa—no, you know what? If you’re older than twelve and can’t cook pasta, you don’t need a recipe. You need a helmet. Just cook it, ok? Drain the pasta and toss with the love soup going on in the bowl. Adjust the seasoning if it needs it.

Pan-Seared Tilapia in a Ginger-Shallot Butter

Ingredients

4 filets fresh tilapia
2 thumb-sized pieces of ginger root, peeled and finely chopped
2 shallots, peeled and finely chopped
½ cup of butter (oh, relax. It’s feeding four people. I use Smart Balance anyway)
Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Get that skillet NASA hot again. Add the ginger, shallots, and butter. Toss it around until the shallots get a little brown on them and the butter is all melted, then transfer it all to a bowl.

While your skillet’s rebuilding heat, season your tilapia filets. Once it’s smoking add a little olive oil, then add them to the skillet. They should be all sizzly and smoky. If they’re not, you didn’t let your skillet get hot enough. Let them cook until the edges start to pull away from the skillet, just a couple of minutes. If they move when you gently shake the skillet, they’re ready to turn. They should have a nice crust.

Once you flip them, let them cook for about a minute, then add the ginger-shallot butter back into the skillet, cook for another minute, then turn the heat off. Carryover cooking will do the rest.

Plate up your summer spaghetti, and then slide a beautiful golden brown tilapia filet over it. Make sure and get some of that ginger-shallot butter on there. Enjoy!

~Alan

Memoir excerpt - Dad

2010-05-24T12:06:00.001-05:00

Dad was, on many occasions, also a teacher of the lessons you never learned in a classroom. I hated the school I attended in tenth grade. The school I had attended since second grade had closed at the end of my ninth-grade year. As a result, I—along with about 50 other kids of various ages—would be bussed from Frayser to a school in an affluent area of Whitehaven, Mississippi.

The bus ride was just under an hour, but seemed like it took forever, and the rich, preppy kids at the new school hated us because we were from Frayser. I came to view the place as hell with lockers. Consequently, I made it my mission to spend as little time at school as possible.

To keep from having to go, I feigned illness of every imaginable type, including (but not limited to) food poisoning, strep throat, amnesia, and—my personal favorite—not being able to feel or move my legs. If I were not successful in staying home, I would do my best to make it through a half-day, and then call Mom to come get me. My reasoning was simple; if she had to continue to come all the way to Whitehaven to get me, perhaps she would get tired of it and just let me stay home.

Iron clad, right? Wrong.

One day when I called, I told her my eyes were bothering me. I “couldn't see well” because everything was “so blurry.” It was a brilliant performance, and I hung up with the knowledge that within an hour, I would walk out a free man. Despite my protest, I was sent back to Algebra to wait for Mom to arrive. What good would it do? I couldn't see anything. As far as they knew.

Twenty minutes later, the secretary came to let me know my ride was here. Twenty minutes? The drive from Frayser was more like fifty minutes.

As I stepped out the front doors of the school, I saw my father's white Ford Escort station wagon in the circular drive. Mom must have called him while he was at his second job, selling insurance. A cold wave of fear washed over me.

My father was not as sympathetic as my mother. In fact, he wasn't sympathetic at all. We kids could be covered with pustulous boils and bleeding from the eyes and he would make us go to school and church.

Walking slowly toward the car, I quickly began to piece together my strategy. I would begin with an apology for interrupting his route. Then I would casually suggest that he just drop me at the house so I wouldn’t inconvenience him further. I climbed into the passenger seat and made my apology and suggestion, but he didn’t respond.

We rode in silence from the school to the stoplight at the end of the road. I had been waiting for the explosion. Finally, it hit. But it wasn’t the verbal lashing I’d expected.

“Your mama and me are trying real hard to give you the best education we can,” he said softly, his voice trembling.

“Yes sir, I know,” I said.

“And we’re getting real tired of coming to get you two and three times a week because you’re ‘sick.’” His eyes were wet now, and tears began to stream down his face.

“I’m sorry. I know you and Mom are working really hard.” I hesitated. “But everybody at this school hates me—not just me, all of the kids from Frayser. They call us ‘Frayser trash.’”

“They can’t hate you, son,” he said, ignoring the tears that streaked his face. “They don’t even know you. If they knew you, they wouldn’t hate you.”

I sat quietly, reflecting on what he’d said, which sounded strangely like a compliment. Except that Dad didn’t do compliments.

I had planned on being home and enjoying the freedom of my room; instead, I would spend the remainder of the day with Dad on his route, going to the homes of his clients and waiting in the car while he attended to their insurance needs, whatever that meant.

We went to house after house. Dad would go in and spend twenty minutes or so at each. The last stop of the day was at a dilapidated old structure that can only be referred to as a shack. It was too small and beat up to be a house and lacked the rustic charm of a cabin. Chickens scratched and pecked around the front yard, which was mostly dirt, and wisps of smoke curled up from the small stovepipe chimney, only to be scattered by the cool October breeze.

“You can come in with me here,” Dad said.

Fine. I was tired of sitting in the car at every stop. Plus, I still felt a twinge of guilt after he had shed tears and then offered me what I still had not fully decided was a compliment.

Dad grabbed his briefcase out of the back and we approached the old shack. He knocked on the front door, which looked to be no more than a few boards nailed together at the top and bottom with battens.

“Datchoo, Mistuh John?” a voice called from inside.

“Yes sir, Mr. Melvin, it’s me,” Dad called back, opening the door.

“Come on in dis house, Mistuh John!”

Following Dad inside, I could barely make out the figure of an old black man in a dress shirt and slacks sitting in front of a pot-bellied stove, feeding the small flames with kindling.

He turned his head over his shoulder toward us.

“Who dis is you got witchoo today, Mistuh John?”

“This is my youngest boy, Alan, Mr. Melvin,” Dad said, motioning for me to shake his hand.

“How you do, suh?” the old man said with a smile, extending a large black hand.

“Fine, thank you,” I said.

“Y’all come on in dis house and sit down,” he said, motioning for us to take a seat on the couch.

As we sat down, he shuffled into the kitchen area and began to pull cups out of a cabinet.

“How ‘bout some coffee, Mistuh John?” he asked.

“Yes sir, I’ll take a cup. Just black is fine.”

“Does you drink coffee, young man?” the old man asked.

“Um, no sir, thank you,” I stammered.

As he milled around in the kitchen clanking dishes and cups, he whistled a tune I didn’t recognize. It was the kind of whistle you heard in old black and white movies; light and melodic with a heavy vibrato.

There wasn’t much to the room. Except for the light coming from the one window above the couch where we sat, it was dark and it smelled like the old quilts in my grandmother’s cedar chest. There was a small bed in one corner, a chair in another, the couch, another chair that faced the kitchen, and the kitchen itself, which consisted only of a sink, a table, and a small stove and refrigerator. A small table against one wall held several sepia-toned pictures of family in old ornate frames, and an open door next to the refrigerator revealed a small bathroom.

“Can I help you with those, Mr. Melvin?” Dad asked.

“No suh, just don’t let me spill none of dis on you,” he chuckled. “It sho’nuff is hot.”

As I watched him make his way back toward us, I noticed that he was looking straight ahead as if staring at something off in the distance. Without looking down, he lowered one of the cups to Dad’s waiting hand. As he made his way around to his chair and sat down, the light from the window illuminated his face, revealing his eyes, which were covered with a milky film, and I realized that he was blind.

Immediately I knew what my father was doing. It was his way of shaming me and educating me all at the same time. His way of saying you think you’ve got eye problems? I’ll show you eye problems. And not only was Mr. Melvin blind, he was also independent. And he didn’t complain even once about not being able to see a thing.

Dad and the old man chatted for a while, and then Dad got out the forms for him to sign and read them to him. Then he guided the old man’s hand to the signature line, where he scrawled a barely legible mark. Once done, Dad began to collect papers and folders and stuffed them back in his case.

“Now, Mr. Melvin, if you have any questions, you know my number at the office and at the house. You call me now, hear?”

“Yessuh, Mistuh John. I sho do, I know how to get holt of you. I’ll sho call you, too, if I needs somethin’.”

He walked us to the door and opened it for us. Show off. As we walked out, he extended his hand to shake Dad’s, then mine.

“You take care of dis man now, you hear?” he said to me, patting Dad on the back. “Dis here’s a good man, yessuh, a real good man.”

I caught Dad’s eye and answered, “Yes, sir. Yes, he is.”

~Alan

Cause for Alarm

2010-04-27T09:14:00.001-05:00

Dear First Alert,

I understand from several independent consumer reporting agencies that you are the manufacturer of the best all around smoke alarm. I must respectfully disagree. This is to inform you that you will soon be receiving a package from me via express courier.

My wife and I have lived in the same house for 9 years now, and your smoke alarms were already installed when we moved in. The low battery alarms have always gone off at seemingly the most inopportune times, but last night was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

First, let me bring up a point. There is no need for the low battery beep to be as loud and piercing as the beep that occurs when your house is in flames. There’s just no reason for it. A nice, soft reminder beep would serve the same purpose. Now, last night’s debacle.

At approximately 3:22am, I was awakened by the incessant chirp of the alarm outside our bedroom door. Well, by that and by my ShihTzu wrapping himself around my face like a cartoon. Apparently the frequency you chose for your beep is one that makes small animals tremble violently and lose clumps of hair. Way to go.

After deciding that the chirping wasn’t going to stop, I got up and dug around in our junk drawer in the kitchen to find a replacement 9-volt battery (seriously, 9-volt? It’s the 8-track tape of the battery world. I’m just saying.).

After stumbling through the dark house, stubbing my toe on the ottoman, and nearly severing my finger on the knife that I forgot was in the junk drawer, I found the battery and made my way back to the still-beeping alarm. By the way, Gizmo, the aforementioned ShihTzu, was at my feet the entire time, still trembling.

I don’t know why I never noticed this before, but your installers chose to place the unit at ceiling level—10 feet in this case. I realized I was going to need a stepladder. I opened the garage door to retrieve said stepladder, setting off the house alarm, an eardrum-bursting 150-decibels. Gizmo began climbing my leg as I entered the code on the keypad to turn off the alarm.

I peeled him off, stepped out into the garage, grabbed the stepladder, took one step back in the house and slipped in the puddle of urine that Gizmo had just created, dropping the stepladder squarely on my face. As I lay there in a warm puddle of fresh dog urine on the cold tile floor, the alarm chirped again.

In the package you will find one pair of urine-stained pajamas, the bashed remnants of your stupid alarm, and enough dog hair to make a wig. Enjoy.

~Alan

Must Try Harder to Not Be Stupid...

2010-04-25T10:38:00.004-05:00

Every Friday night Mary and I have date night. We go to dinner and sometimes a movie. This past Friday night we went to Red Lobster, one of our favorite new places. Only in recent years have we become seafood fans, so we're still testing the waters, so to speak. We both like shrimp, scallops, tilapia, and sea bass, but our favorite item on the menu is without a doubt their Cheddar Bay biscuits. They're light and fluffy and buttery and garlicky. They are magnificent, and if I ever figure out where the hell Cheddar Bay is, I may move there.

Anyway, I've been working on developing a taste for salmon—a task I'm not having much luck with. I don't necessarily dislike it, but I just can't make myself really enjoy it. But in yet another attempt to become a fan, I ordered the wood-fire-grilled salmon. Salmon, as you may already know, is rich in essential vitamins and minerals, as well as Omega-3 fatty acids. It has tremendous health benefits. Benefits that were completely eclipsed by my consuming roughly 38 Cheddar Bay biscuits.

I was modest at first, breaking my first one into several small bites. But as the butter and garlic took over, I got all worked up into a froth and began to devour them Cookie Monster-style, with bits of buttery crumbs flying about. At one point, the waitress asked me to slow down because the guys in the kitchen couldn't keep up. I was reduced to picking the crumbs off my chest like an otter. I even offered the folks at the table next to us $20 for the three they had left. It was not a proud moment.

But every experience is an opportunity to learn, and that's exactly what I did. People say that changing your habits and losing weight is a battle that's fought a day at a time, but I disagree. I submit that it's a bite-by-bite battle. You have to be consciously aware of every single thing you put in your mouth. Next time we go to Red Lobster, I'll be ready for the challenge. You know, once the restraining order expires.

~Alan

Leisure

2010-04-21T13:24:00.000-05:00

Leisure
by William Henry Davies

What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

New to Me

2010-04-05T12:28:00.001-05:00

I seem to be a bit of a late bloomer when it comes to trying new things. I get excited about finding some exotic new food, only to discover that all of my friends and family have been eating it for years. I imagine such will be the case with my latest discovery. This weekend Mary and I made a day trip to Branson, MO. It’s only a couple of hours from us, so it’s great for a quick getaway.

She took me to a Mexican restaurant she had been to during a conference there last year. Cantina Laredo is an upscale Mexican bistro, doing for Mexican food what PF Chang’s did for Chinese food. It’s located in Branson landing, a trendy outdoor mall of shops on a river walk waterfront of nearby Lake Taneycomo.

It’s a beautiful day, so we decide to sit on the patio and watch the water and fire shows that occur every hour. We place our order and sit back and relax, the breeze gently carrying the sounds of nearby fountains and music. When the food comes, I’m impressed. I ordered mushroom and goat cheese enchiladas in adobo sauce. Good stuff, but not my food trophy for the weekend.

On the side is a small salad of lettuce with a white-fleshed fruit or vegetable of some kind. I poke at it, trying to figure out what it is. I stab a small piece with my fork and take a hesitant bite. It’s a little crunchy, with a mild sweet flavor like an apple or a pear. It’s actually pretty darn good. Even after I’ve finished my enchiladas, I’m still picking at this mystery food. When the waiter comes back, I ask him what it is. He tells me it’s jicama (pronounced “hick-uh-mah”). It’s fabulous.

I’m sure many of you reading this have already experienced the crunchy sweet goodness that is jicama. But for those who haven’t, check it out sometime. It’s high in fiber and a great source of Vitamin C. It’s also fairly low in calories and carbs—about 50 calories and 10 carbs for one cup—making it perfect for a diabetic like myself. And it’s a culinary chameleon, perfect for anything from salads to entrees to desserts. Maybe it’s old news to the majority of folks. But to me, it’s brand new.

~Alan

Cultural Revelation

2010-04-01T14:04:00.001-05:00

In my sometimes-successful quest to eat healthy, I have also recently begun expanding my dining repertoire. I always seem to eat the same things: broccoli, asparagus, chicken, beef, etc. Not that there’s anything wrong with those. But I wanted to get outside my culinary comfort zone and try something new. Which is precisely what I did last weekend. One of the guys I work with sometimes gets lunch from a place called Aroma here in Bentonville. It’s a Pakistani restaurant. The first time he brought the food in—chicken biryani, he said it was—I thought it stunk horribly. But over the next few times, I began to break down the complex scent into its pleasing components: cinnamon, cardamom, ginger, mint, cumin, garlic, chili powder, and turmeric. It’s a hearty smell that may offend at first. But like making a new friend, once you get to know what it’s made of, you settle in comfortably.

I decided to visit Aroma. Mary, though reluctant, agreed to go. I promised her that if it was horrible I would take her somewhere else immediately. I also wondered how my middle-aged digestive system would process Pakistani fare. I was prepared to have regrets, either in the restaurant or in the bathroom. We arrived at Aroma, and even getting out of the car, we could smell the strong spices on the breeze. Mary made the comment that it smelled really good, and I agreed. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. The gentleman taking food orders at the front counter was obviously of Middle Eastern descent, but when I told him we wanted 2 chicken biryanis he said (with no trace of an accent), “Dude, you don’t wanna do that. Get the buffet. It’s like 4 bucks cheaper and you get everything.”

So we did. We sampled a small portion of everything: chicken biryani, chicken tikka masala, chicken vindaloo, and dal masoor, as well as roti (also called chapatti) and naan, baked flatbreads with amazing texture and flavor. It was, in a word, wonderful. Each dish had so many contrasting flavors that work together so well.

Admittedly, Pakistani food, like traditional food of any culture, is probably not terribly healthy, what with its liberal use of cream and butter. But I’ve already found several websites that offer healthy versions of the dishes we enjoyed. So now when we get tired of plain chicken and rice with vegetables, I have a whole other culture from which to borrow.

~Alan

A Work in Progress

2010-03-17T12:48:00.001-05:00

I've been working on a memoir of my childhood for the last few months, and I thought it might be fun to post a chapter and see how you like it. It's long—it is, after all, a chapter—but I hope you'll read it when you have time and let me know if you enjoyed it. So for your reading leisure, The Old House.

During a recent Christmastime visit to Tennessee, my family gathered at my parents’ home for a Saturday morning breakfast. I hadn’t seen my family in at least two years, and sitting with them unleashed a flood of memories from my early years. As we ate, we recounted stories from our early years, mine being the most recent, more than 30 years ago.

It was like pulling the sheets off of furniture in an abandoned house, years of dust billowing into bright shafts of sunlight. Remembering some pieces of our childhoods brought us lots of laughter; others, sheepish, embarrassed grins. Like all the times my older brothers Steve and John launched me down our long wooden hallway on a toy tractor. Or the time John ran maniacally around our back yard covered with a sheet, shouting, “I’m a ghost! I’m a ghost!”; then plowed face-first into a fencepost. Or when Steve raced his bicycle down a steep hill and crashed like Evel Knievel at Caesar’s Palace. Or my insistent belief that I was, in fact, bionic.

Several hours of laughter and catching up later, we parted ways with hugs and promises to stay in touch. Mary and I, feeling a little nostalgic, decided to visit some of the places that had been such prominent fixtures in our youth.

I don’t even remember the last time we drove through Frayser to see the old house by the monastery. Mom and Dad had moved to the country years ago, where they retired from the business of caring for nuns and began caring for Mom’s aging mother, who had moved in with them.

As we passed familiar sights, I took note of landmarks—not in a cultural or historical sense, but in the sense that they had been, for 25 years or so, significant places in my life—and how they had changed over the years. The house of my best friend growing up still looked the same as it did 30 years ago, only now there were different cars in the driveway. The building that had once been Mary’s uncle’s auto repair shop still stood in the same place, but was now a used car lot. The Frayser Community Center, where I learned—with no great amount of surprise—just how badly I played tennis, still looked much like it did the last time I saw it.

We passed Frayser Elementary School, Frayser High School, and the corner convenience store where I used to ride my bike to get a cold Mountain Dew on a hot day.

Finally the red brick wall surrounding the monastery came into view. As I turned into the driveway, we passed under the familiar archway reading MONASTERY OF ST. CLARE, still standing, in brick and iron.

But the house was gone. Our old brick house, with the chipping white paint and the green shingle roof, was gone. Not even a brick remained; the only thing still standing was the detached garage that was now most likely used for storage. A gravel lot scattered with leaves now sat where my entire childhood took place. Gigantic oak and pecan trees that shaded us in the summer now stood sadly like mourners over the grave of a friend who has passed on before her time.

I started to speak, but the thoughts racing in my mind couldn’t slow down long enough to find their way to my mouth. Tears took me by surprise and I tried my best—unsuccessfully— to fight them back.

Why was I crying? I mean, it was just a house, right? No. It wasn’t just a house. It was my house, and it was so much more than bricks and plaster walls and hardwood floors. It was the house where I learned to tie my shoes, ride a bike, throw a football. The house where I careened at breakneck speeds down a long hardwood hallway on a toy tractor; played with Muffin, my first dog; and survived 11 days without power during Memphis’s worst-ever ice storm.

Mom and Dad had discovered the house in the late ‘60s. Like many other young couples in those days, they were having trouble making ends meet. Supporting a family on one salary from my father’s job as a firefighter was difficult, and they always seemed to have “month left over at the end of the money,” as they said. With three kids in school and the recent addition of a fourth—me—they were no longer able to make rent. Knowing their situation, a friend of Dad’s at the fire department, Frank Bradford, told him about the house he and his wife were living in.

Situated across a small parking lot from a secluded order of Franciscan nuns, the house was owned by the Catholic Diocese, and the Bradfords lived there rent-free in exchange for running errands and being general caretakers for the monastery. They lived in one side of the house, and an elderly woman rented the other side. Frank’s wife had been a schoolteacher and, after a few years off, was ready to start teaching again. They would be moving to a new home in a month or two, and Frank offered to let Mom and Dad take over their responsibilities.

Dad came home one afternoon and asked Mom if she wanted to move. For months, Mom had been praying for a new start. She never told Dad, but she had pleaded with God for something inexpensive so they could begin to work their way out of a mountain of debt. Her only request was that it have indoor running water and at least one toilet. She sighed a prayer of relief and gratitude when Dad told her it had two indoor bathrooms.

Indoor plumbing notwithstanding, the house was a wreck. It was infested with fleas, and the chiggers in the unkempt yard nearly carried Steve away, according to Mom. The windows were so loose that they were falling out of the sashes, and paint chips littered the windowsills and the floor at the baseboards. The elderly woman, after learning of the Bradfords’ plans to move, left and moved to Ohio to live with her two sons. But she left her mark on the place. She had cooked on a hotplate in her bedroom so often that gelatinous layers of brown grease had built up on the plaster walls and ceiling, and her toilet was caked with petrified feces that had to be scraped out with a putty knife.

My mother’s mother cried when she saw the house for the first time because she didn’t want her grandchildren to have to live in those conditions. My parents spent years fixing, cleaning, patching, and repairing that house to make it a home. They lived there 30 years, but still never got it quite the way they wanted it.

Sitting there facing a blank slate of land, I closed my eyes, and I could still see it standing there. My mind’s eye carried me through each room the way a robotic camera slowly takes viewers through the murky wreckage of a sunken ship.

We had two garages; one attached, one detached, that we referred to as “the little garage” and “the big garage,” respectively. The big garage was home to a collection of lawn mowers that we used commercially, and it always smelled of oil and gasoline. Garden tools, business end up in a blue fiberglass barrel, resembled a huge vase of particularly ugly flowers, old cans of motor oil and transmission fluid lined the shelves of a dusty bookcase, and scraps of plywood, old windows and doors, and lengths of trim molding loomed overhead in the cobwebs of the rafters.

The little garage held our washer and dryer, along with a chest freezer and baskets of laundry patiently waiting their turn. A counter ran along one side with cabinets above and a chest of drawers below, both full of treasures. My grandfather’s old hand tools, a five-pound coffee can full of assorted bolts and nuts, paintbrushes and rollers, cans and jars of stains and paints, their contents dribbling down their sides, crusty pairs of White Mule work gloves, and a collection of carpenter’s folding rulers.

I remember watching Dad sharpen lawn mower blades with the bench grinder, passing the long blades carefully over the wheels, a storm of orange sparks raining down on his boots and disappearing into the floor. When he had finished, the edges of the blades would gleam like polished chrome.

Exiting the garage and going up the stairs to the back door, I could see down the long hallway that stretched all the way to the front door. I stepped left into the kitchen, with its cornflower blue walls, linoleum floor, and Formica table, where scores of family dinners and conversations about grades, behavior, girls, and attitudes took place. Across the table and above the counter, a black rotary phone hung underneath shelves between two sets of ivory-colored metal cabinets on the wall opposite the refrigerator and stove. The fireplace on the far wall sat next to the cabinets where Mom kept flour and sugar in plastic one-gallon ice cream tubs.

Crossing the hall, I moved into the den that had once been my brother Steve’s bedroom. A couch and chair sat where his bed used to, and the black ornamental iron eagle he had secured to the fireplace years ago still spread its wings majestically. Stepping into the bathroom that joined my room to Steve’s, an old cast-iron claw foot tub sat under the window. The bathroom floor was made up of one-inch tiles, each a different color.

I remember bathing in that tub as a kid, pretending to be at the top of a huge mountain and staring down at those tiles as if each one were a parcel of land. On other occasions the tub was the captain’s chair of my spaceship and the tiles were buttons on a massive computer that controlled my flight through space. When bath time was over, I’d slip into my pajamas and crawl into bed, the coolness of air on wet skin sending a little shiver through me.

Stepping into my room, a row of storage cubbies sat above the bathroom door. They were where Christmas decorations, and on occasion, gifts, were stored during the year. My bed sat against the opposite wall, flanked on either side by my dresser and chest of drawers. A closet sat on either side of the bathroom door; one for my clothes, shoes, and toys, the other for my parents’ clothes. My room was the only one in the house without a fireplace. That was probably best, as I would most certainly burned the house down had I had one.

Across the hall was my parents’ room, which had a bathroom of its own that we all shared because it was the only one with a shower. I remember watching my dad and uncle Jim remodel that bathroom; covering the old walls with a new melamine material, caulking it, and even installing new fixtures in the sink and shower.

My parents’ closet was tiny—only deep enough for shoes—necessitating their acquisition of one of mine. There were many nights my little feet padded into their room and crawled into bed to sleep with my mother when my father was at the fire station. I would go to her side of the bed, the furthest from the door, and pat her on the shoulder until she woke up. She always said, “Climb in.”

I also used to sneak into their room when they were outside or busy somewhere else in the house and quietly slide open the top drawer of my father’s chest of drawers. At the very back left corner, behind his boxers, was a small tattered black box lined with red felt and divided into a half-dozen sections. Each section held something different and wonderful; mysterious coins and stamps collected from other countries during his years in the Navy, silver and brass pins worn on his firefighter’s uniform, tie pins he wore to church on Sundays.

I would place each item in the palm of my hand and run a finger over the surface to feel its texture, every curve and raised edge, and then place it back in its little section of the box. Once I had satisfied my curiosity, I carefully wedged the box back into its spot and slid the drawer closed. I did the same with items in my mother’s dresser. She kept a collection of silver dollars in a coin purse in the top right drawer and I loved to crawl onto their bed with it, spill the clinking coins onto the white heirloom chenille bedspread, and then push them over each other to listen to the smooth friction between them.

The living room was the last room at the end of the hall, and it spanned the depth of the house from front to back. The house was so old that the light switches in the living room were the push-button kind. At one end of the room was the fireplace, and on either side were shelves filled with Bible reference books, countless Reader’s Digest condensed books, various knick-knacks, and a set of Book of Knowledge encyclopedias. Occasionally I would sit in the floor with one volume open in my lap and peel through the thick, glossy pages to look at the colorful pictures of exotic animals in places I would probably never go. Sadly, the encyclopedias were used more often as weights to hold sheets and blankets in the construction of forts than they ever were for the purpose of education. Our living room was for that sole purpose: living.

The entire family was doing just that one night when I was five. The circus was on our rickety 20” TV, and as the high-wire performers on the screen inched carefully across a thin cable, I pretended to do the same around the edge of our large braided rug. At that age, I was seriously deficient in both motor skills and balance, and I promptly fell face-first into the coffee table, leaving two tooth-sized grooves in the edge where my front teeth gouged their way through the wood. I don’t really remember much after that, which is probably for the best.

Other, brighter memories in this room included countless Christmases, with family members spread around the room laughing and reminiscing, just as we had earlier that day at Mom’s and Dad’s.

The images of my childhood in this crumbling old house are still so vivid, it’s hard to believe that it’s gone. The stories each board and brick held we also hold in our hearts and minds. The memories leave a permanent imprint like, say, teeth in a coffee table. I can’t help but feel a little silly for naively believing that it would always be there. That I would always be able to drive by and see it. The house’s absence still leaves me a little sad. It was both a monument to and an icon of my formative years, but realizing it’s gone has brought about an overwhelming desire to reconstruct both on the page. It’s brought me a reason to keep in touch with my family a little more often. To revisit the places I remember so fondly and wake the ghosts of my childhood.

And by remembering the good times we had and keeping the memories alive, that old house will stand forever in our minds, chipping white paint, spaceship bathtubs and all.

~Alan

The Fly By

2010-03-04T12:13:00.000-06:00

“I did a fly by today,” Mary says while we’re washing dishes after dinner.

“You did a what?” I ask.

“A fly by. Is that right? Fly by?”

“Ummm, not familiar with the term. At least not outside the realm of aeronautics.”

Gesturing with her hands, she says, “You know, when you fart and then walk by someone. I did a fly by on them.”

“I think you mean you crop dusted them.”

“Crop dusted! That’s it!” she exclaims, smacking the counter with the dishtowel.

“Who did you crop dust?” I ask, laughing and scrubbing the inside of a skillet.

“A school visitor in the office. I didn’t mean to. It was an accident,” she says sheepishly.

“Then it wasn’t an intentional crop dusting?” I ask.

“Well, I knew it was coming and I didn’t do anything to stop it,” she says.

“Then it was intentional.”

“Oh. I really didn’t mean for it to be.”

A moment of silence passed, and then she said, “I think she heard it.”

“What? Why? Did she look at you or say something?”

“I don’t know, I was too embarrassed to look back. But it was loud enough that I’m pretty sure she heard it. I heard it.”

“Yeah, but you knew to listen for it. You can’t assume she heard it,” I say, hanging the skillet on the rack.

“I was leaving the office when it happened. Maybe she thought it was the door opening?” she says hopefully.

“Hey, whatever you need to tell yourself.”

Another moment of silence, then: “You’re going to put this on the blog, aren’t you?”

~Alan

On Thin Ice

2010-02-26T09:33:00.001-06:00

Nothing comes closer to turning me into a gay man than watching figure skating. When Chinese pair Shen and Zhao performed their short program on Valentine’s night, I wished for a gold medal for them. And they got it, by the way. I found myself sitting there enraptured by their talent, their grace and power. And I was nearly on the edge of my seat with every move, finally breathing when they finished.

Other couples were less memorable, and I found myself being a little catty with them, saying things like, “That is the most horrible triple toeloop I have ever witnessed,” “What’s up with that straight line step sequence? I’ve seen better footwork in 'Planet of the Apes on Ice,'” and “It’s a pair combination spin, honey! You’re supposed to be in synch with each other, hence the word ‘pair!'”

I don’t understand. I didn’t behave like that when we watched snowboarding or downhill skiing. What is it about figure skating that makes me go all Carson Kressley? Don’t get me wrong; I love Carson more than my luggage, but why am I not that way with all of the competitions? Maybe it’s the intrinsic femininity of the sport itself.

I don’t mean the competitors are gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that), but let’s face it—it does require one to move with quite a bit more flourish than other sports. Plus, if you compare the petite frames of the female skaters to those of, say, the female curlers, the difference is obvious. I’m probably thinking about this too much. I should just enjoy it. And I will. As soon as I make myself another Cosmopolitan.

~Alan

Just One of the Girls

2010-02-08T12:13:00.001-06:00

Super Bowl weekend is over. Apparently the Saints won, although I didn’t watch the game—I was obsessed with Hoarders and couldn't stop watching, a fact I find ironic. My weekend didn’t include anything even remotely Super Bowl-ish. In fact, Saturday night Mary and I went to a Miss America Pageant party. Yes, I know the pageant was last week. But the weather here was such that the party was postponed a week. The pageant was recorded, and all those invited had to swear to not watch it.
At a Miss America pageant party, you might expect the atmosphere to be one of dignity and grace, where champagne is served in crystal goblets, petite finger foods are artfully arranged on beautiful platters, and conversation is intellectually stimulating. This? Was not that kind of party. This gathering was for the express purpose of making fun of the pageant and its contestants. As a born cynic, that’s the kind of party I can really sink my teeth into.
Instead of champagne in goblets, there was wine and rum in plastic cups. Instead of crudités, pâté de foie gras, and petit fours, there were pigs in a blanket, cheese dip, and red velvet cupcakes. Instead of dignity and grace, there were cackles and screams of laughter, especially when a contestant nearly bought it coming down the steps in her evening gown, hit a bad note during a performance, or had a ridiculously bad hairdo. And instead of intellectual conversation, there was talk and laughter about another friend—who wasn’t present—blow-drying her naked crotch in a hotel room while her roommates looked on in shocked disbelief. It was a fantastic party.
The invitation came by way of Tracy, a friend of mine whom I worked with at BP. Her friend and former neighbor, Darlene, hosts the party every year for a group of about ten women. This year, for the first time ever they broke tradition and invited a man. Me. And I had a blast. Mary even made pageant sashes for the two of us. She was “Misdemeanor” and I was “Misguided.”
Several of the other women have obviously known each other for a long time. They enjoyed a familiarity with each other, one that quickly rubbed off on Mary and me. The chatter was nonstop throughout the pageant, but when a contestant appeared in a particularly garish evening gown, ill-fitting swim suit, or displayed a decidedly lame talent, catty laughter and applause swelled and filled the room.
Comments were made about contestants’ awful spray tans, having too much junk in their trunk—which was true, as more than one could have used their butt as a bookshelf—or bearing a striking resemblance to everyone from Mary Lou Retton to Princess Fiona from Shrek. Even the winner, Caressa Cameron (Miss Virginia) was not exempt from this, as she was compared to “the Avatar chick.” If you’ve not seen either, trust me—she looks just like her.
One of the great points of the night was during Miss Hawaii’s talent portion—not surprisingly, the Hula—when the graphic at the bottom of the screen flashing snippets of information about her revealed that her favorite accessory is a smile, placing her in direct contention with the overly perky Miss Kentucky for Pageant Pollyanna. The noise that came from those women was one of frustrated dismay—the same noise that men make when their team fumbles the ball.
The night ended too soon. Mary and I had a fabulous time, and feel like we made some new friends. I selfishly hope we’re invited back next year. I can’t wait.

~Alan

The Drawing Board

2010-01-26T14:07:00.000-06:00

There’s nothing I hate worse than staring at a blank screen. I’m sitting here attempting to craft a series of words that will explain, with brevity and clarity, why I haven’t written anything about my diabetes and weight loss in so long. That’s what I intended this blog to be about—along with the occasional funny experience or observation.
The simple truth is this: I haven’t been doing as well as I would have liked, and I’ve had so much support from so many of you, I really didn’t want to broadcast my failure. I shouldn’t say failure; my friend Chuck always reminds me that it’s only failure if you stop trying. I initially expected that the accountability of sharing my results on this blog would propel me to action and certain success. Yeah, not so much. So instead of admit my struggle, I’ve just chosen not to share at all, which is not what I promised myself I would do. So here’s a very brief recap of what I’ve omitted:
During the holidays, I ate more than I intended to—peanut brittle and fudge were particularly hard to resist—but still managed to maintain some semblance of control. But then I put weight back on that I had lost, slumped into a bit of a depression, and spiraled into a short season of bingeing. I’m doing better now, although I still have the occasional setback, though not nearly as often. I still need to get into a regular exercise schedule, something that will help as much or more than eating right. I’ve also been in the process of writing a memoir, for which the research and writing takes up a good bit of time, but were I to manage my time more efficiently I would have time for it all.
So I seem to be back at the drawing board, in a sense, but it’s not necessarily a bad thing. After all, the drawing board is where plans are created, edited, and (hopefully) improved.

~Alan

Dredging up the Past

2010-01-11T21:11:00.001-06:00

I haven’t posted here in a month or so, and I have to come clean: I’ve been writing on the side. For the past several months I’ve been working on a memoir of my childhood growing up next door to a Catholic monastery, and the past few weeks have kept me at my computer, putting the finishing touches on chapters that will serve as a partial manuscript (after an initial query) for a literary agent should he or she require them. But I still plan on blogging as often as I can, if for no other reason than the fact that I enjoy it. And those of you who knew me in my childhood, feel free to toss your memories my way. I’d love to hear them. Thanks.

~Alan

A Safe Place

2009-12-21T22:11:00.001-06:00

It's two o'clock in the afternoon. My wife, two friends, and I park at the unmarked entrance of a nondescript building. A phone call is made. The door opens and we step out of the bright sun into a dim, fluorescent-lit corridor. We are escorted though a maze of hallways, each under the scrutiny of monitored surveillance cameras. We are being watched closely. Each door we pass through requires a key or badge. Security is at its highest. This place is not a government bunker or a maximum-security prison. It's the Northwest Arkansas Women's Shelter, a safe haven for women and children who are survivors of domestic abuse and sexual assault. They've experienced firsthand the kind of violence that most of us only encounter in nightmares that leave us with racing hearts and sweaty skin. But these women have made the decision to leave, and, perhaps in the dead of night, they've fled their homes, leaving behind their old lives—along with many of their possessions—in order to start a new one. We're here to cook Christmas dinner for them. It seem like such a trivial thing to do when compared with the list of other needs they each must surely have.

The kitchen is in the middle of the residence, and "clients," as they're referred to, peek from their rooms and around corners as we make our way through the hall. Though small, the kitchen has sufficient room to work. We begin to unpack the rolling cart, suitcase, and cooler with the food and tools we will need to cook. On my team today are Margo, a friend and coworker (who I am convinced is my sister, Evelyn, incarnate), her friend Kristy, and my wife, Mary. They have graciously volunteered their time to help prepare the large meal. As we begin, I'm a little flustered. I'm not in my own kitchen, which throws me a bit. Fortunately, Mary steps in and makes the logistics flow. She is the Tom Cruise to my Dustin Hoffman.

Margo and Kristy chop apples, peppers, and onions while I retrieve from the cooler one of the two turkeys we'll be cooking. I smear butter and herbs in the pocket created by separating the skin from the meat with my fingers. Chopped apples, onions, and herbs go into the cavity of the turkey to act as aromatics and add flavor. The children's laughter bouncing through the halls surprises me. I don't know what I expected. Of the four or five years that we've cooked for the shelter, this is the first time we've cooked on site; the first time we've been in close proximity to the clients and them to us. A little girl suddenly appears at the kitchen door.

"Boo!" she says loudly. "Did I scare you?" We all feign surprise and shock, assuring her that we were, indeed, scared. She giggles and runs off. Moments later she is back to scare us again. And we are just as scared the second time around. And the third. And the fourth. Eventually the other children come into the kitchen to check things out, watch us work, and stand on tiptoes to peer into bowls being filled with chopped apples, peppers, and onions. A woman with a positively cherubic baby on her hip slips into the kitchen quietly and opens a cabinet door.

"I'm sorry, I just want to get a coffee cup and I'll be out of your way," she says. Out of our way? Is this another symptom of having been abused? The assumption that no matter where you are or where you go you're in someone's way?

"I think we're the ones in the way," I say with a smile and a slight laugh. A smile forms on her lips, hesitantly at first, then spreads across her face, crinkling her skin.

"No, we appreciate y'all coming in here and cooking for us," she says. The baby grabs a handful of Mom's hair and gently pulls her fingers through it. This child is beyond adorable. With chubby pink cheeks and eyes as blue as the Mediterranean, she is the kind of child who turns rational adults into babbling idiots. We all fawn over her, which delights her and her mother to no end. As they leave the kitchen, we all return the little one's bye-bye waves—not so much waves as fat little fingers repeatedly scrunched as if grabbing at invisible butterflies.

Both turkeys are now in the oven. Margo, Kristy, and Mary are a blur, cutting focaccia bread into cubes and sautéing onions and peppers as I chop celery for the rustic bread dressing. Mary has had the presence of mind to bring the iPod and a portable speaker. As we cook we're serenaded with Christmas tunes by Harry Connick, Jr., Chicago, Bebe and Cece Winans, and others. The pots on the stove release wisps of steam into the air, which is warm and thick with the smells of holiday food. Another woman steps into the kitchen, hands Margo an envelope, and quickly walks away. Margo opens it and begins to read the enclosed card to us. As she reads, her voice becomes strained and tears well up in her eyes. By the time she finishes, we are all overcome and unable to do anything remotely resembling work.

"Me and my children would like to thank you all for making Christmas dinner for us. It touches my heart that you all take time out of your own lives to touch someone else's. Thank you and God bless you."

She includes her first name and those of her three children—something not usually done in these circumstances. We compose ourselves and soldier on. It's time to toast the bread cubes and start the cranberry compote. Margo and Kristy have buzzed through chopping vegetables and bread. There's not much left to do except wait for the turkeys to finish cooking, so I tell them that if they want they can leave. I do have two other dishes to make, smashed sweet potatoes with cinnamon and nutmeg, and green beans with a balsamic shallot butter, but these will be easy. After Margo and Kristy leave to be escorted back out, a little boy comes into the kitchen, hands stuffed deep into his pockets, and asks, "What're you doing?"
"We're cooking dinner," Mary responds.
"Wif what?"
"Well, there's turkey. Do you like turkey?"
A head shake no.
"How about dressing. Do you like dressing?"
Another no.
"What about sweet potatoes. Do you like those?"
Yet another no.
"I bet you like hot dogs and macaroni and cheese," Mary says triumphantly.
Finally, a nod yes.
"Well, we're going to have some for you here in just a little bit. Would you like a cookie for now?"
A vigorous nod yes.
He clutches his cookie close to his chest like an otter holding a clam and skips out of the kitchen, only to return a few moments later. I can see him eyeing the suitcase full of utensils and dry goods. Picking up a masher, he asks, "What's dis?"
"That's a potato masher," Mary says. "You use it to mash up potatoes."
"I wanna do it."
"Um...OK." Then to me, "Are the sweet potatoes ready to be mashed?"
"Yes they are," I answer.
Mary sets the foil roasting pan on the lid of the cooler and together they mash the sweet potatoes. Several more utensils get pulled from the suitcase, each with the requisite "What's dis?" and "I wanna do it." After helping bring other dishes to completion, he darts off to play with the other children.

As the afternoon goes on, we begin the process of cleaning up and packing our things back into the cart and suitcase. The women are now milling around outside the kitchen, peeking in occasionally to smile, say hi, and tell us how good it smells. Their gratitude for such a small thing is overwhelming. I can only imagine the ways in which their worlds have been turned upside down. Perhaps something as simple as a meal can lend a sense of normalcy to their lives.

As we head down the hall, a stampede of children rushes us from behind and surrounds us, reaching and hugging, giggling and thanking us. After every hug has been dispensed, we are escorted back through the maze of hallways to the exit. We are thanked one last time by the advocate on duty and the door closes behind us. It is now dark and cold outside, but I know that the women and children inside are enjoying a warm Christmas dinner in a safe place.

~Alan

The Hickey

2009-12-14T21:39:00.001-06:00

When you're eleven years old and bored out of your mind, whether due to a lack of creativity or a lack of intelligence, the idea of shooting pecans at each other with a high-power slingshot sounds exciting. My best friend growing up, Bill Cook, had an enormous back yard that was perfect for a game of slingshot tag. The only ingredients needed were a five-gallon bucket of pecans, a slingshot, and a sense of adventure bordering on stupidity. Unfortunately, we had all three. The rules were simple; run around the back yard like an idiot until you either get hit with a pecan or cross into the safe zone: Bill's mom's flower bed. Bill was up first as the "runner." I took my position and loaded my first pecan as Bill prepared to make his run. Due to my inaccuracy with the slingshot and Bill's winding pattern through the back yard, not a single pecan found its target. He bobbed and weaved, dodging each of my shots. Finally, a pecan made contact with his torso, meaning it was my turn to take to the yard.

It turns out that since the slingshot belonged to Bill, he was significantly more accurate with it. Every time I got within twenty feet of him, he'd nail me with a shot to the leg, chest, or back, requiring us to trade places. This went back and forth for some time, and I began to build up quite a collection of bruises. We took a short break to get something cool to drink and get out of the hot sun for a few minutes. Afterwards, I felt renewed and took my place ready to run. I took off like a shot, tracing a serpentine figure around the yard. Even Bill's marksmanship was no match for my clever maneuvering; I faked left, then right, then left again, stopping and starting, jumping and ducking my way around trees and through open areas, getting closer and closer to the safe zone. Bill’s face was red now with frustration, and as I wove an intricate pattern toward the flower bed, I hoped he would begin to fire out of desperation, substituting quantity for quality. Instead, he seemed to be channeling his frustration and converting it into a frightening mix of anger and accuracy. The pecans began to get closer to me, and I could hear and feel the whiz of air as they rocketed past me. He was launching them really hard now, stretching the bands of the slingshot into long, thin strands of rubber. But he hadn't hit me yet, and I was only steps away from the flower bed now. As I made my final dash for the safe zone, I decided to add a little panache and leap across it. And that? Turned out to be a really bad decision.

As I leapt into the air to cross into the safe zone, Bill fired one last pecan, which tore through the air toward me like a little brown missile. I could see it coming straight for me, and there was no way to get out of its path. It connected with the left side of my neck, just above the collar, with a resounding THWACK, knocking me off my flight path and dumping me into the begonias like a sack of dirt. As I lay in the midst of the flowers with a hand over my stinging neck, I heard Bill saying, "Gotcha!" as he laughed hysterically, and I knew he would taunt me mercilessly about it. However, over the weekend the large red welt developed into what appeared to be a massive hickey. Mom tried to help me find a shirt with a collar to cover it, but the middle of May wasn’t really turtleneck weather, so she suggested that I simply make the best of a bad situation by taking preemptive action. Bill was always late for school on Mondays. Always. It was just a fact of life, like leaves changing color in the fall, and I decided to use it to my advantage. I arrived at school a little early on Monday, wearing a collarless shirt. The other members of my fifth-grade class instantly gathered around me to point and stare, their eyes and jaws wide with amazement. The rumors began to spread like a flame consuming a trail of gasoline. By roll call it was common knowledge that I had gotten a hickey from a seventh-grade girl—instantly propelling me to rock-star status—and by the time Bill arrived there was no convincing anyone otherwise. So Bill, if you’re reading this? Gotcha.

A Holiday Request From Me to You

2009-12-06T19:44:00.001-06:00

Dear friends and family,

With the holidays quickly approaching, I want to take a moment and ask for your help. For the past few years Mary and I have worked with the Benton County Women’s Shelter, now the Northwest Arkansas Women’s Shelter. These ladies and children have gone through physical and emotional abuse that, thankfully, most of us will never experience. In many cases they’ve literally fled their homes with nothing but the clothes on their backs. We cook either a Thanksgiving or Christmas meal for current residents (usually 20-30), and we also purchase Christmas gifts (for the most part simple necessities like clothes and shoes—of course, the kids also get toys and books) for as many of the families as we can. Between now and Christmas, I’ll be coordinating with the shelter on how many ladies and children will be in need of Christmas gifts. I’ll have a wish list for each lady and child a little closer to Christmas. And you don’t have to buy for a whole family; you can purchase just one or two items on any list.

Also, we’ll be cooking Christmas dinner for them this year. If you’d like to contribute to that instead of (or in addition to) the wish list, by all means do. Anything you do is helpful. These ladies and kids are amazingly sweet, appreciative people despite all they’ve been through. If you’d be interested in helping, here’s how:

For locals friends, just send me a message on Facebook and tell me you want to help, or use the option below.

For my out of town friends, I’ve set up a PayPal account to which you can send money online. And I hope this goes without saying, but for the worry warts out there, please keep in mind the following:

This money is not for me. I have a nice job with a nice salary. I have my own money. I don’t need to steal yours.
This is voluntary only. If you’re not able or don’t want to help for whatever reason, don’t sweat it.
I won’t be able to see any of your credit card or personal information. Again, don’t need it, have my own.

Ok, now that we’ve crossed that bridge, here’s how to send money via PayPal:

Go to PayPal.com and click Send Money at the top.
In the To box, put my email address, arkansasgrizzly@yahoo.com
In the From box, put your email account.
In the Amount box, put the amount you’d like to contribute.
Click the Personal category tab and select Gift, then click Continue.
On the next page enter all your information just as you would for any online purchase.

Finally, if you want to help the shelter but you’re not comfortable with sending money to me, go to their website, www.nwaws.org and click Donations. You can do a PayPal donation there. It won’t go to this specific effort, but it will help them with everyday costs. If you have any questions, just send me a message here on Facebook. Thanks so much!

~Alan

Where I Am

2009-12-01T19:49:00.011-06:00

Ok, I admit it. I'm having a hard time, and I don't want to tell anyone because I'm 1) ashamed of myself for having such a hard time with something as seemingly innocuous as food, and 2) convinced that those who read this won't understand. And most probably won't. Fact is, until you've stood in front of a vending machine, dollar in hand, fighting the urge to buy a package of Ding Dongs, you won't understand. What makes a grown man want to sneak food into a bathroom stall and devour it while perched on the toilet like a big fat gargoyle? I have no idea. I mean, logistically I understand not wanting to be seen eating foods that, as a diabetic, I'm not supposed to have. I also understand the urgency to eat it quickly, destroying the evidence of my failure. If it were a carrot stick or a stalk of celery, I'd have no problem being seen with it. I might even flaunt it. What I don't understand is why I feel compelled to eat things that I sometimes don't even truly want. Sometimes the food has absolutely no flavor or texture, but the mere act of consuming it is a physical and emotional release. And then afterwards I hate myself with the fire of a thousand suns. Ok, that's a little dramatic. Let's say a hundred suns. Then, the voices start floating around in my head, telling me that I'm never going to beat this and that I might as well give up. I know better, but I can't change the station. That comes from my depression, and recently it's been worse. I'm getting close to the end of my freelance contract at work. To say that I'm anxious about my January 31 contract renewal would be like saying that I have a little weight problem. I don't want to go through another year, or even another month, of unemployment. I don't want to leave this job. I love my job. I love my coworkers. I've made friends and found a place where I finally feel like I fit in and enjoy what I do. The thought of losing that coupled with the prospect of job hunting in this economy has delivered a psychiatric one-two punch that has me reeling. So that's where I am. But things will get better. They almost always do.

~Alan

Letters from Home - Rayleen's Wedding

2009-11-15T17:16:00.005-06:00

Once again I find myself sharing the latest installment from my family. My cousin Rayleen was recently married, and Mom and Dad attended the ceremony, which was held in the thriving metropolis that is Batesville, MS. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend, but I can always count on the folks to fill me in when I miss something...

Dear son,

Hello, how are you? We’re doing pretty good. We’re in Batesville, MS this weekend. Your daddy’s cousin Junior’s daughter Rayleen got married yesterday so we’re down here staying at the Budgetel. Your daddy wanted to stay at one of them hotels that’s got that fancy toilet what washes your rear end (he saw it on the Travel Channel), but I told him they don’t have places like that in Batesville. Well, I wish you could have been here for the wedding. It was a real pretty service. Poor old Junior was worried about his little girl getting married right out of high school, but she and Carthel (that’s her husband, Carthel Higgins) just love each other to death. He’s a few years older than her (she’s 19 and he’s 26), but they get along real good. Junior said it was a blessing in disguise that Rayleen had to repeat her senior year twice, otherwise there’d have been an even bigger gap in their ages. Carthel’s daddy owned a farm implement dealership over in Pope. Now, just between you and me, Carthel ain’t a real good looking boy, or the sharpest tool in the shed, for that matter, but he’s a real sweet boy, and he’s got his daddy’s money and that’s made him a real prize to most every girl in Panola County. But, as he says, he was “took up” with Rayleen from the moment they met at the dealership. He was telling us about it at the reception.

He said she came in with her daddy one day looking for a hitch adapter for a bush hog. Their eyes met, and he fell “smack dab in love,” as he says. They dated for about a year, and then one Saturday night he took her to dinner over at the Tour Chef (that was where they always went for special occasions) and afterwards he told her he had to stop by the dealership for something. He pulled up and parked right in front of the dealership sign which, like most everything in Batesville, gets turned off at 7pm. He ran inside and turned on the sign so she could see where he had spelled out “Will U Marry Me?” in them little square letters. She said yes and they set a date right there on the spot. They chose April 29th because that’s Dale Earnhardt’s birthday and Carthel loves Dale Earnhardt almost as much as he loves Rayleen. Anyway, about a month before the wedding Carthel got in a fight with Earl Smoot over at The Beer Barn. Earl had always kind of had a thing for Rayleen, but she wouldn’t go out with him on account of he used to date her best friend Mandy Lynn’s younger sister Loretta and she had that scabies where you get them blisters on your privates and Rayleen didn’t want none of that mess rubbing off on her.

Anyway, Earl had been at the Beer Barn a pretty good while and had gotten good and liquored up. He told Carthel that he couldn’t make Rayleen happy with his daddy’s money and that what she needed was a man who made his own living. Of course, that got Carthel all upset and he took a swing at Earl. They fought for a few minutes, but they were both so drunk that neither of them got in a good lick. That is, until Earl smacked Carthel square in the mouth with a bottle of Wild Turkey. As soon as he saw what he’d done, Earl sobered up and felt real bad. He even called Rayleen to come get Carthel and rode with them over to the all night medical clinic in Oxford. On the way over, they all had a good talk. Well, Earl did most of the talking, what with Carthel having to keep a bar towel pressed up against his mouth and all. Do you know he had to get 14 stitches in his lips? Thank the Lord, they healed just fine in time for the wedding, but he lost all but three teeth in the front. Bless his heart, if he wasn’t ugly enough before (don’t go repeat that, now). Anyway, over the next couple of weeks Earl came by the dealership every day to check on Carthel and sometimes they’d go eat lunch together. They got to be real good friends. In fact, when the best man, Vinton McFarland, fell off his roof and broke his leg a couple of days before the wedding, Carthel asked Earl to be his best man. It sure was a pretty service. The reception was just as nice as it could be. Junior and them’s next door neighbor Velma Jenkins made a red velvet wedding cake shaped like Dale Earnhardt and Carthel was so happy he cried, bless his heart. They had bought a case of balloons to fill with helium and let loose out of a big old livestock water tank, but Rayleen’s younger brother Darnell and his friends got carried away with the helium and used most of it up singing them midget songs from the Wizard of Oz, so they had to just blow up the balloons by mouth. When they pulled the tarp off the tank to let them loose, they all just kind of sat there. Oh well, at least everybody got to take one home. After the reception, Rayleen and Carthel left on one of his daddy’s antique John Deere tractors. It was just beautiful. Even Earl cried. Well, I guess I need to wrap this up. We’re fixing to go downstairs and get us a continental breakfast. You take care, and we’ll holler at you again soon.

Love,

Mom & Dad

Thank You, Veterans

2009-11-11T17:53:00.005-06:00

I originally posted this on Memorial Day, but it's equally appropriate today.

On this Veterans Day, I dedicate this post to each and every veteran who has ever served or is currently serving our country. Allow me to offer you my thanks for the following:

For the days and nights you spent in a foxhole, trench, swamp, jungle, or desert

For being afraid that you might be killed while serving, and doing it anyway

For every war cry you sounded while taking a beach or a hill, a cry that was likely fueled as much by your fear as it was by your motivation

For every hour of sleep you lost because you were scared to close your eyes

For every time you woke up in a cold sweat wondering what it was you just heard

For every bullet you fired that found its target

For all of the ways you’ve been affected by having to take another person’s life

For every time you wondered if you were doing the right thing

For every grain of sand, drop of water, and clump of mud you shook out of your boots

For the time you spent away from the places and people you loved, and for each of you who never got to come back to them

For all the “first’s” you missed: the birth of your first child, their first steps or first words, or your first anniversary with your new wife or husband

For every school play, wedding, or funeral you didn’t get to come home for

For each of you who were denied a hero's welcome upon returning home

For every scar and every limp; for every wound, visible or invisible

For every time you were stared at because you were missing a limb

For every nightmare that you can’t stop having

For every right and freedom that we have

For every time you shake your head when those rights and freedoms are abused by those who didn’t have to fight for them and cannot even begin to fathom the cost

For your willingness to fight to protect this country

For all you have done, and still continue to do, I thank you.

If you know a veteran, share this with them. And thank them.

~Alan

Through the Rain

2009-11-03T19:47:00.006-06:00

This weekend Mary and I were planning to go to a fantastic Halloween costume party. We didn't make it. We ran into someone from my past Saturday afternoon while we were out running errands, and I was so incensed afterward that I completely lost my party mood. This person, who shall remain nameless, is completely oblivious when it comes to the ways of empathy or social grace. He is the proverbial bull in the china shop of etiquette. He is familiar with my employment history and knows that I lost my job in April of last year due to a corporate reorganization. He asked how we had been doing and how long I ended up being out of work. I told him a year. He said that that sucked. I agreed. He then proceeded to ask us if we'd made it. If we made it through the rain. If we kept our world protected. If we made it through the rain. And kept our point of view. If we made it through the rain and found ourselves respected. By others who got rained on, too. If those words don't ring a bell, they're lyrics from a Barry Manilow song. And he tossed them out with such cavalier indifference, it was just shy of mockery. And this is but a mere glimpse into how much of an asshat he truly is. This is how he chose to inquire as to whether we had survived the year of my unemployment. A year of feeling worthless because I couldn't find a job, despite applying for roughly two hundred of them. A year of wondering when, or if, it was ever going to get better. A year of buying groceries from Dollar General. A year of trying—unsuccessfully at times—to put on a brave face in front of Mary and then weeping after she left for work because I wasn't taking care of her. So to answer your question, you bumbling, boorish jackass, yes. We made it through just fine. And in the future, when you see me? Do us both a favor. Turn around and walk the other way.

~Alan

Trick or Treat

2009-10-24T20:38:00.000-05:00

It's that time of year when leaves turn brilliant colors, fireplaces are awakened for the first time of the season, and kids begin to get excited about going trick-or-treating, a tradition that families have taken part in for ages. But I have a confession to make: I've never been trick-or-treating, at least not in the traditional sense. Growing up, I lived next door to the Monastery of St. Clare, a secluded order of Franciscan nuns who spend their days in prayer. My family lived in a house on the grounds and worked for the monastery. My mother drove the nuns to doctors' appointments and ran other errands, and my dad, on his days off from the fire department, cut the grass and served as a general custodian. One of the byproducts of this unconventional living arrangement was a lack of friends. Any other time of the year this wouldn't have been a problem, as I was happy to entertain myself, but in order to trick-or-treat, especially at the age of eight, one needed friends to go with, and my solitary existence severely limited my candy-gathering potential. So did my parents' paranoia about my going from house to house "begging for candy," as they called it. They were convinced that our neighborhood was filled with sadistic child murderers, and that I would meet an untimely death after having consumed candy laced with poison, or discover too late that a stranger's apple concealed a razor blade, as if fat kids even ate apples to begin with. But I had a bigger problem; if I didn't have candy to share at my second-grade Secret Pumpkin party the following Monday, I would be subject to public humiliation and a subsequent pummeling by Richard Baumgarten, the class bully.

Since the neighborhood was clearly off limits, Mom suggested that I go trick-or-treating at the monastery. I had not previously considered this as a viable alternative, but it wasn't a bad idea. The sisters adored me, and they had scads of food in the place. Yes. I would trick-or-treat at the monastery. A last-minute trip to the local Ben Franklin yielded my first and only Halloween "costume," a simple tiger mask, the only thing left in the costume bin that hadn’t been destroyed. Its hard, razor-thin plastic edges cut into my face, and a wisp of a rubber band served as the only means of securing it in place. The microscopic air holes in the nose were never meant for a human to breathe through, causing an inevitable build up of condensation—not to mention carbon dioxide—on the inside of the mask. I wore it the entire afternoon, bumping into walls and door frames due to the lack of visibility through the tiny slits masquerading as eye holes. Mom told me repeatedly to take it off, that she would tell me when it was time go.

As dusk approached and the blue sky began to melt into orange and pink and gray, I went to the hall closet to find a bag in which to carry my loot. Bag selection would be crucial; too big a bag and they might think me presumptuous, while too small a bag sent the message that I didn’t want or expect much. After some deliberation I chose a middle-of-the-road paper grocery sack, one you might use for a few oranges, say, or a couple of handfuls of golf balls. As soon as the sun sank out of sight, taking with it the last remnants of light and color from the sky, I began to get antsy, waiting for the go-ahead from Mom. The sisters usually retired to their individual rooms around 7:00pm, writing letters, reading the Bible, or spending time in prayer. If Mom didn't hurry, I would miss my window. As soon as I heard her call my name, I sprang into action, grabbing my loot sack and mask and heading for the door. She had originally insisted on going with me, but I talked her out of it, reasoning that she could watch me make the entire 150-foot trip while standing on our back porch. With Mom at her post, I stumbled across the parking lot, through the covered walkway, and into the monastery. It seems they were expecting me. Mom, I later learned, had called and told them I was coming. Eleven of the twenty-six sisters—most were older and had already gone to bed—greeted me at the front door without my having to even ring the bell. They each held a mixing bowl full of goodies. They all ooh-ed and ahh-ed about my "costume," remarking how scary I was and asking if I bit. One after another, they approached me and emptied the contents of their bowl into my grocery sack, which was soon overflowing. They were prepared for that as well. Sister Jude, one of the younger, newer members, pulled out a canvas tote bag large enough to hold a baby elk. The rest of the sisters emptied their bowls into the tote bag, then laid my puny bag on top. They hugged me, tousled my hair, and generally made a big deal over me, after which I issued a muffled "thank-you" through my mask and made my way back across the dark parking lot, struggling to drag the tote beside me.

Once in the house, I peeled off my mask and unceremoniously dumped the contents of the bag on my bed to survey my take. There was candy: Tootsie Rolls, root beer barrels, butterscotches, peppermints, caramels, candy corn, circus peanuts, Dum-Dums, bubble gum, and Hershey's Kisses. There was also less traditional Halloween fare such as apples, oranges, and bananas. Then there were items that didn't fit into any other category: a packet of powdered lemonade mix, a dozen or so Oreos in a plastic sandwich bag, a small crucifix, and a tin of Sucrets lozenges. I knew instantly that these items came from Sister Gabriel, an eighty-nine-year-old nun who was young at heart but oblivious when it came to social situations. She didn't understand the rules of Halloween, the unwritten protocol of costumes and candy. She simply knew she was supposed to give me something, and she likely just collected items that were lying around in her room. But I loved Sister Gabriel, and I would find a use for each of her gifts.

Our Secret Pumpkin party was in full swing when our teacher, Mrs. Yarbrough announced that it was time for us to play Secret Pumpkin, the portion of the party where everyone placed on our desks the jack-o'-lantern lunch sacks we had created earlier, and then walked around dropping some of our Halloween candy into each sack. As we prepared for lunch, we all grabbed our pumpkin sacks, excited to see what we had gotten from our classmates. As everyone sifted through their candy, they found root beer barrels, butterscotches, and bubble gum. Everyone was pleased except Richard Baumgarten, who sat at his desk with a sour look on his face, staring at a handful of Sucrets.

~Alan

Worth Celebrating

2009-10-20T20:44:00.006-05:00

Progress is, in some respects, not unlike money. The more you have, the more you want. I had my weekly weigh-in today, and was down a pound. I know I should celebrate that victory, but after last week's substantial loss, a part of me is disappointed and feels like I could have, should have lost more. And that part of me? Can bite it. I lost another pound, and I'm proud of myself. I was reading some work by one of my favorite authors recently, and the following sentence caught my eye: "Every success, no matter how seemingly insignificant, is evidence of change." So very true. Change has always been difficult for me, not only with regard to food, but also when it comes to giving myself a little credit. Like many other people, I'm my own worst critic. If one of my friends had lost a pound, I would congratulate them as if they had completed a marathon. But my own lost pound is met with a dismissive wave and a sigh of boredom from the side of me that expects more. So it may take a little while for me—all of me—to truly believe that even small successes are worth celebrating. But in the mean time, I'm doing just that.

~Alan

Un-Fair Food

2009-10-16T14:27:00.002-05:00

I was outside earlier today during lunch. The sun was out, and the air was cold and crisp. Yep, it's craft fair weekend here in Northwest Arkansas, and from War Eagle to Bella Vista, huge white tents have been popping up in pastures for days. The other morning on my way to work I passed by one such site. It was misting and still dark, and as I got closer I could see the lights of the concession stands, already powered up and ready. The soft flicker of golden light reflecting off the peaks of the nearby tents in the dark field made it seem almost sinister. But there's nothing sinister about the craft fair. Except the food. Corn dogs, funnel cakes, kettle corn, and a host of meats on a stick. The smell of it hangs in the air and rides on the breeze, tempting you as you browse through booths filled with quilts, wooden crafts, and birdhouses constructed from license plates. I have a bit of a love/hate relationship with fair food. I love it, but I can't devour it like I used to. I love kettle corn; popped in a steaming cauldron the size of a Buick, the sweet and salty mix is one of my weaknesses. And corn dogs. I may need a moment. No store-bought or fast-food corn dog will ever compare to a corn dog from the fair. Ever. Even the mustard is better. A properly prepared corn dog with just the right application of mustard will make me weep openly, causing passers-by to stare, their children pointing and asking, "Mommy, why is the fat man sad?" Oh, and funnel cakes, made irresistable with a liberal dusting of powdered sugar, are another favorite. You can easily spot someone who's just had a funnel cake: eyes crossed and mouth slightly ajar, powdered sugar on their face, hands, and clothes, a wad of napkins the size of a grapefruit, and a single paper plate, gray blotches of oily residue peeking through crumbs and clumps of white powder. Whoever said ignorance is bliss has obviously never had a funnel cake. Or any fair food, for that matter. But fair food has a dark side; namely the calories. And fat. And carbs and sodium and...ok, there is no redeeming nutritional quality in fair food. Out of curiosity I Googled "fair food nutrition." I found a chart showing the calories, fat, and carbs found in popular fair foods. I've included the link below, so I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that, with the possible exception of meth or heroin, you'd be hard pressed to find anything worse for you. So as I head out to craft fair this weekend, I will do so already having eaten. Because fair food? Is not the least bit fair.

http://diabetes.about.com/od/nutrition/a/carnivalfoodfacts.htm

~Alan

Now That's More Like It...

2009-10-13T20:15:00.002-05:00

Sometimes encouragement comes just when you need it. Today, I needed it. And, thankfully, I got it. Last week's weigh in was a real disappointment with a loss of only a half pound, taking me from my starting weight of 480 to 479.5. Then I folded like a cheap lawn chair last night and ate everything but the dog. Needless to say, I was ready for something positive to happen. And the timing couldn't have been better. When I weighed this afternoon, I was down eight pounds to 471. It was sufficient motivation to keep me from repeating last night (which will henceforth be referred to as The Great Calorie Debacle), as well as providing me with the positive numerical feedback that I so desperately needed. Now that's more like it.

~Alan

Punching Cicero

2009-10-13T13:25:00.002-05:00

If Cicero were alive today, I'd punch him in the junk. The Roman author wrote, "Where is there dignity without honesty?" There is nothing dignified about this post. When I recently began writing about my battle against obesity and diabetes, I made a promise, both to myself and to the faithful few who read this blog, to be honest and forthcoming about my successes and failures. It seems that promise has come back to bite me in the ass. Last night I caved. I knew it would be more difficult with Mary at an out of town conference until Wednesday, but I had no idea just how easily I could fall back into old habits. When I got home I changed clothes and went straight to the kitchen. I grabbed a one-pound container of chicken salad out of the fridge, a sleeve of Ritz crackers from the pantry, and plopped into my chair to watch a recorded episode of My Name is Earl. I polished both off before the first commercial break. Then I followed it up with two chili dogs, half a bag of Fritos, and a large bowl of lite ice cream. And lite ice cream? Loses quite a few of its low-calorie benefits when you consume an entire pint of it in one sitting. Afterward I felt miserable, both physically and emotionally. I know that I'm the only one that can change my eating habits. And that's what scares me. Why would anyone put me in charge of something as important as my own health? That seems like a role that would be far better suited to someone more responsible. But it's ultimately my job to become that responsible person. The best thing to do after you fall is to get right back up. So today is a new day, and I've done well with my eating. And tonight will not be a repeat of last night; rather, I like to think of it as an opportunity for success.

~Alan

The Problem with Big Balls

2009-10-10T11:05:00.007-05:00

In my recent efforts to become a healthier version of myself, I’ve begun looking at various exercise programs to strengthen my core, if I still have one. Several fitness books and websites suggested a body ball. However, I’m not sure a body ball is the way to go just yet. I have serious trust issues when it comes to sitting on things that I’m not entirely certain will support me. This is not an irrational fear, but rather the result of experience.

When I was about eight, the Bishops, one of the families we went to church with, invited us over to their house one Sunday night after services. The adults sat around the kitchen table drinking coffee, eating pound cake, and talking about boring adult subjects. Things adults always talked about that bored us kids to tears; things like sales tax or property easements. The kids, Carrie, Leigh Ann, and I, played in the garage, which, except for a few toys, garden tools, and the girls' bicycles, was empty and made a fine playroom. The toy we all ran to first was something called a Hippity Hop, which was fiercely popular at the time. If you don’t remember, it's a large colored ball with a handle that the kiddos straddle and hang onto while they bounce around. It looks like a lot of fun, but in reality? It's a tool of the devil.

Even at eight I was a gentleman, so the girls went first, each taking their turn on it, bouncing around the garage and giggling hysterically. I could hardly wait for my turn. When it finally came, I was beside myself. I swung a chubby leg over one side, gripped the handle, and settled down onto the huge ball. It took more than a little effort to generate enough energy for me to actually bounce, but once I got started there was no stopping me. I bounced as high as I could, reveling in the momentary feeling of weightlessness between bounces. Upon contact with the garage floor at the bottom of my trajectory, I noticed that I was putting a bit more of a strain on the ball than the girls. I didn't really give it much thought until, on my third or fourth trip around the perimeter of the garage, I passed by the girls and noticed that their smiles had melted into pained expressions of profound concern.

As I rounded the corner on my next trip, the ball exploded with a loud BANG that sounded very much like a gunshot, sending bits and pieces of red rubber shrapnel rocketing in every direction. The girls screamed and ran into the house, only to be met by our parents, who had heard the noise and were coming to see what we had destroyed. I sat motionless on the garage floor, scraps of red rubber dangling from my head and shoulders. I still maintained my grip on the handle, from which the remains of the ball now hung lifelessly. A white powder, industrial talc from inside the ball, covered my face and clothes as if I had been sandblasted, and the acrid smell of warm rubber hung heavily in the air. My parents scooped me up off the floor, dusting me off and brushing flecks of rubber from my hair. Apologies were made, along with a promise to replace the ball. The adults exchanged the obligatory pleasantries and goodbyes while I stared at the powdery starburst on the garage floor, not realizing that some thirty-odd years later it would serve as the deciding factor to not purchase a body ball.

~Alan

A (Half) Pound of Flesh

2009-10-06T19:39:00.003-05:00

As you may have imagined, I can't weigh just anywhere. A bathroom scale is completely out of the question, and even a regular doctors scale won't do the trick. Fortunately, my doctor's clinic has a biometric scale that will weigh me. So on Tuesdays when I get my allergy shot, I also weigh. For those joining this blog already in progress, last Tuesday I weighed in at a petite 480 pounds. I've been eating well all week, feeling better, and even re-introduced my rear end to a pair of pants that hadn't fit in months. So today when I weighed, I expected to see a decent loss. When one is as overweight as I am, weight comes off quickly in the beginning. That said, I would have been excited to have dropped six or eight pounds, but I would have taken two. But when I stripped off my socks and shoes and stepped on the scale, I was shocked to see that I had lost a whopping...half-pound. Son of a—half a pound?? Really? That's what I've been busting my ass for? For the love of Pete, I can pee half a pound off. I stared at the numbers for a moment, as if I could stare at them long enough for them to adjust to my liking, but the 479.5 just stared back at me. I stepped off, reset the machine, and got back on again. 479.5 again. The nurse passed by the open door and asked if I was doing alright. I wasn't. I picked up my socks, slid my bare feet into my shoes, and left. Quickly. Disappointed? You bet your sweet bippee. I've done really well with my new lifestyle, and some numerical evidence would have been fantastic. In the past, that kind of disappointment would mean, ironically, stopping on the way home to binge—a Quarter Pounder, large fries, 6-piece McNuggets, large drink, and a McFlurry—and then eating dinner as normal to hide the fact that I binged. But now? Not so much. I have to think about the other forms of validation I've gotten: feeling better, having more energy, spending way less on fast food and restaurant meals, and enjoying a happy reunion with a pair of cargo pants. It's not all about the pounds. So I'm finishing this post, then going into the kitchen to pack my lunch and get ready for a new day.

~Alan

You're Going to Make It After All

2009-10-03T11:06:00.004-05:00

Yesterday, I made my two coworkers look at my butt. And, good friends that they are, they congratulated me because my butt, it seems, is a bit smaller. I wore a pair of cargo pants that I haven't been able to squeeze into for quite some time. I'm starting to get the hang of this new way of eating, and it's not that bad. I'm rarely hungry. Truly hungry, not just bored or anxious. I do have to admit that I miss some things. I could really go for some mint chocolate chip ice cream, and I'd wrestle a bull moose for a plate of fried pickles. I know, technically, I could have a half-cup of ice cream or an ounce or two of fried pickles. But I don't want just an ounce or two. I want a heaping platter. And therein lies the problem. Once, when I was only ten, I consumed an entire peach cobbler. I'm talking about a made-from-scratch peach cobbler in a nine-by-thirteen Pyrex casserole dish. That unhealthy mindset is the reason I weigh only slightly less than a Mini-Cooper. And that's what I have to fix. Why have I always felt the need to consume my food like Cookie Monster, with crumbs flying and falling from my mouth as I make num-num sounds? So, for now at least, no ice cream, fried pickles, or a host of other food items that send me into a feeding frenzy. Like any relationship that leaves you in a bad place, they've had to be nixed until I'm healthier and more responsible, physically and emotionally. But if my progress thus far is any indicator—and I believe it is—that day will come more quickly than I might have imagined.

~Alan

Starting Over

2009-09-29T20:01:00.004-05:00

After finding out the week before last that I was diabetic, I’ve begun the process of turning over a new, very heavy leaf. My diet has changed. You’ll notice I didn’t say I was dieting. Diet, for me at least, is a noun, not a verb. I can’t diet. I have dieted in the past and failed. Miserably. The Atkins Diet. The Hilton Head Diet. The 3-Day Diet. The Hollywood Diet. The Slim Fast Diet. I could go on, but in the interest of your actually reading this, I won’t. Did I lose weight? Sure, a little. But like a broke college kid, it always came home, welcome or not. I’ve never consistently been conscious of—much less careful about—what kinds of food I put in my body. I would not be surprised to find out that I’ve spent as much on fast food as Iran has on uranium enrichment facilities (cue rim shot). I would eat breakfast, lunch, and, on many days, dinner out. My total food consumption on a typical day was somewhere in the range of 5,000-8,000 calories, or three to five times what a normal person eats. And I did this for years. It’s no wonder that my weight has climbed like it has. After eating healthy for nearly two weeks now, my weight is 480 pounds.

Embarrassing to share? You bet it is. But I’m determined to open myself up and let myself be vulnerable. Most guys consider it taboo to discuss their emotions. But I’m not most guys. And I will be dissecting my life to get to the bottom of the destructive relationship I’ve had with food for as long as I can remember. And it won’t be a whiny, poor-me-I-have-an-eating-problem tirade. At the end of the day, I’m the one responsible for my weight. No one forced me to eat, like, everything. No, it’ll be a humorous romp through my history of bad decisions—including favorite binge foods—as well as my current efforts to get back to something resembling healthy. If you think this sounds sad and you pity me right now, don’t bother following the blog, as you’ll likely be mortified. If, however, you want to witness the hilarious journey of a fat guy getting in shape, I’ll see you soon.

~Alan

Some Good News

2009-09-23T17:20:00.003-05:00

I heard back from the ultrasound I had done on my leg, and the resuts are normal. I'm relieved—and just the tiniest bit surprised. I'm thankful for those results, but it's almost like taking your car to the mechanic for that clanking sound, only to be told that there's nothing wrong. Still, good news is good news, and I'll take it where I can get it.

~Alan

I've Been Violated...

2009-09-18T19:43:00.002-05:00

I've been violated. No, really. I have. Allow me to explain. First of all, this has been a particularly disappointing—albeit, not surprising—week for me. After years and years of irresponsible eating habits and sedentary lifestyle, blood work from a recent dotor's visit revealed that I am now diabetic. Of course, this means a whole new lifestyle, including diet changes and medication. It also means I'm the proud new owner of a glucose testing meter. Okay, not proud, but an owner nonetheless. My doctor also checked my feet and legs. She told me that the discoloration on my lower left leg—the discoloration I've been ignoring because it didn't hurt—is due to blood pooling in the shin area. That discovery led to a referral to have an ultrasound on my leg to check circulation. So today I went to the hospital to have the procedure done. After checking in and getting my obligatory wrist band, I was led to the imaging waiting room by a volunteer. Less than ten minutes later—just as I had become engrossed in a scintillating article in Rural Arkansas touting the virtues of canned okra—a woman I can only describe as "of Asian descent" stepped into the waiting room and called out, "Ah-yen? Ah-yen...Simpson?"
Yeah, that's gonna be about as close as she gets, I thought. I followed her back to the procedure area into a small, dark room where an ultrasound machine sat blinking just to the right of a stretcher draped with sheets.
"You take pants off, leave underwear on," she announced loudly before slipping into an adjacent room where another tech sat reading a newspaper.
Alright, then. I wasn't sure why I needed to take my pants off to ultrasound my shin, but whatever. So I removed my pants and took a seat on the stretcher. She returned a moment later and began entering information into the computer.
"You lay down," she said briskly.
As I lay back on the stretcher, she draped a towel over my waist, and I began to get the idea that maybe my shin wasn't going to be the only thing involved. Without warning, she squirted a sputtering line of warm lubricant down my left leg from crotch to ankle. I jumped slightly but quickly regained my composure. However, it wouldn't last long, as her next move was to jab the ultrasound probe into my bad place where leg and crotch meet and begin digging around the way one might if one were milling grain using a mortar and pestle. I grabbed a handful of sheet with each hand and froze instantly. I've always heard how, in the event of a bear attack, you're supposed to play dead. I always imagined that it would be difficult to not move, to completely disengage your body from your brain—which is telling you to run as if Satan himself were chasing you with a belt sander—and just lie there while this animal determines whether or not it's going to rip you to shreds. I can now say with a fair amount of certainty that it's really not that difficult to lie still. Your body and brain seem to simultaneously realize that you are in crisis mode and agree that it's best if they part ways for a while. The tech finally gave up on my crotch and began maneuvering the probe down my leg. Every ten or fifteen seconds she would step back and press a few buttons on the machine, temporarily stopping the pulsing electronic whoosh, the sound of blood flow. After what seemed like an eternity, she abruptly took the probe away, stabbed a few final buttons on the machine, and threw a towel in my direction, all in what seemed like one deft movement.
"We all done. You clean off gel, then get dressed and go," she said dismissively. "Go left at double door and go out through waiting room."
As much as I wanted to stay and thank her for a magical afternoon, I was more than ready to go. Cleaning the gel off took a little more time and effort than I would have imagined, as she had somehow managed to smear it from the waistband of my underwear down to the inside of my sock. I wiped off as much as I could, then quickly got dressed in the dimly-lit room and headed out into the bright afternoon sun to go home and take a much-needed shower.

~Alan

Letters from Home: Aunt Lucille's Boobs

2009-09-12T16:07:00.003-05:00

Once again I find myself sharing tidbits of my life that should probably remain hidden. This most recent letter from the folks reinforces one simple but important tip for better living: don't cook naked.

Dear son,

Hello, how are you? We're doing real good here. Your daddy says hey. He's on the phone with Aunt Lucille. She's just getting home from the hospital after a little accident. She was baking a cake for her neighbor Levinia Scoggins, who just had that eye surgery they do with the lasers. Levinia can call it "quality of life" if she wants to, but everybody knows she had her eyes lasered so she could get her trashy novels up at the Quickie Mart and stop having to order the ones with large print from that place over in Selmer. Anyway, Lucille had been taking food over there to her for three or four days even though Levinia told her she was fine. I guess Lucille just needs to feel needed. Anyhow, Lucille was putting a load of laundry together and decided she might as well wash what she was wearing, so she stripped down to her birthday suit right there in the kitchen and put her clothes in the washer. About that time the timer went off for the cake. So she opened the oven door a little and bent down to check on it. As soon as she did, her bosoms settled on that hot oven door. She jerked up right quick and started blowing on them and fanning them trying to cool them down. She finally ran a sink full of cool water and leaned over it to let them dangle in there for a little bit. Uncle Dub came in from cutting the grass and saw her butt naked with her bosoms hanging in the sink and asked her what the hell she was doing. She told him what happened and he busted out laughing, so she clanked him over the head with a Pyrex dish that was sitting in the drying rack. He took her to the emergency room since it looked like he was going to have to get stitches anyway. It turns out she had first degree burns on both of what Dub calles her "chesticles." They told her she's going to have to keep them wrapped up for a while, but that they should heal soon. Dub ended up getting 7 stitches in his head. Serves him right for laughing at her. Well, other than that there's not much going on here, so I guess I'll say goodbye for now. Take care and we'll see you later.

Love,

Mom & Dad

An Ode to Poo

2009-09-10T06:18:00.005-05:00

A few days ago, I stopped into the bathroom at work to pee. The only station unoccupied was the back stall, so I stepped in and closed the door. Inside the toilet was a small mound of poo slightly smaller than a tennis ball hanging onto the side of the bowl. It was alone; there were no other remnants or remains of previous occupants, and, except for the presence of the poo, the bowl was sparkling clean. I quickly did my business and flushed. The poo hung on with amazing tenacity and remained after the rush of water had ceased and the bowl had refilled, leaving it peeking above the surface of the water like a fat little frog. As I washed my hands, I couldn't help but giggle like an eight-year-old. I exited the bathroom and went about my day. A bit later, I found myself in need of another pit stop and headed back to the bathroom. It was empty this time, but out of morbid curiosity I leaned into the back stall and peered into the bowl. The poo remained, still clinging to its spot as if it had been organically welded there. I finished my business and flushed, expecting the poo to release it grasp on the porcelain and float away. Instead, it clung fiercely to the bowl and never flinched. Impressed, I washed up and went back to my desk. The rest of the day came and went, and as I headed out to go home I had to stop in one last time just to see if it was still there. As I entered the stall, I could see that the poo was still hanging on, but it looked tired and haggard. I hesitated a moment, then flushed. The poo gave up its grip, tumbled around the bowl for a second, and was then quickly escorted away, leaving me alone in the silence of the bathroom. As I lay in bed that night, I shared the story with Mary and we giggled and snorted about the resilience of poo. I told her that, in light of that resilience, I felt the need to give the poo a name. Almost immediately, she offered a moniker that seemed proper and fitting. So I dedicate this post to you, Mr. McClingy.

~Alan

Thanks But No Thanks

2009-09-03T21:30:00.002-05:00

Back in March of this year, while still unemployed, I responded to a job posting for a tech support position. The company I applied with, Collabera, is a local company here in Northwest Arkansas run by Middle Eastern and Indian management that provides third-party tech support reps for larger companies. It turned out to be a huge pain in the ass, a less-than-pleasant experience that left me mad as hell. A few days ago I received another email from Collabera informing me that I had been selected for yet another tech support position. For the first time in my life, I responded the way I wanted to instead of just deleting the email. And it was wonderful.

Ronak,

Thank you for contacting me in regard to the position with Hewlett-Packard. I interviewed with your company, Collabera, in March of this year. I met with Jaspal Nandra regarding a similar position with IBM and, even after explaining to him that I had no UNIX or Linux experience—two of the three operating systems listed in the job requirements—was told that I would be suitable for the position. An interview was scheduled with IBM later in the week. Mr. Nandra was to meet me outside the IBM building at 7:30 the morning of the interview, go over some details with me, and accompany me to the interview. He didn’t show up until 8:30, after the interview was over and I was walking to my car. He offered no apology or explanation. It was a colossal waste of my time, as well as IBM’s. And if you, Mr. Purohit, would have read my entire resume, you would have seen that I still have no experience in UNIX or Linux, again, two of the three the operating systems on this job posting for Hewlett-Packard. As I am not keen to waste any more time attempting to communicate with your company in English—which your employees seem have problems understanding—let me crystallize the theme of this response in a more succinct manner:

I would rather dig ditches for a living and live in squalor the rest of my life than to give even the slightest appearance of being in any way associated with the reprehensible façade you call a business. You may consider this email as notice to purge my resume and contact information from your system.

Kiss my ass,

Alan Simmons

The Invitation

2009-08-29T10:54:00.003-05:00

I just got invited to attend a nude party. By a group of lesbians. Why are they inviting me? It's not like I'm hot. And even if I were, I've got the wrong, um, equipment. These are the thoughts rushing through my head as I try and maintain a polite smile because I'm still talking to them. I'm in the waiting room of my doctor's office. I just came in for a lousy allergy shot, but I came on the wrong day and the allergy nurse isn't here, so I have to wait until there's a nurse available to stick me. Which could be a while. As I waited, I noticed the three women seated across from me. Stocky, mannish women in their mid-forties with short spiky hair, each wearing t-shirts—one of which read "You Say DYKE Like It's a Bad Thing"—and cargo shorts with sandals. They had been quietly talking amongst themselves about throwing a party for the friend who was seeing the doctor while they waited. Who knew lesbians went to the doctor in packs? Let me clear the air, lest you think I have a problem with homosexuals. I don't. Like smoking or bicycling, homosexuality doesn't work for me personally, but that doesn't keep me from befriending them.

"Excuse me, can we ask you a question?" one of them asked.

"Um, sure," I said.

"Hi, I'm Denise. This is Carla and Deb."

"I'm Alan," I said.

She leaned forward in her seat and said, "We're planning a little get-together next week for our friend. There may be a few guys there, and we're trying to make sure we've got enough 'guy food'." Carla and Deb, seated on either side of her, smiled pained expressions, as if this whole let's-ask-the-big-straight-guy-what-he-likes-to-eat idea had been thrust upon them with no prior notice.

"Well, is it going to be like finger food or a dinner?" I asked.

"It's just finger food and snacks," said Denise.

So I told them the kind of snacks and foods I liked, the kind that most guys probably like. We chatted about the party a little, then food in general, eventually moving into deeper conversational waters with topics like weight loss and self-image. They were completely honest and open with me even though I was a complete stranger. And I found myself surprised at how comfortable I was talking about sensitive subjects with three women I had just met. They invited me to their party, a really nice gesture. But that's when it happened. That's when they informed me that the party was, in fact, a celebration of freedom and individuality. Oh, and that guests would attend in the nude. Naked. Without clothes. I tried to react casually, as if she had just told me that she was thinking about adding lil' smokies to the menu, but I could already feel the blood filling my face as I forced out an, "Uh-huh."

"We're not ashamed of our bodies," Denise said. "We believe that they're truly beautiful, no matter what society may think, and we celebrate our individuality with nudity."

When she originally mentioned freedom, I had envisioned a Fourth-of-July-style event with sparklers and lawn chairs. But that concept was now shot. Because sparklers and nudity? Do not mix. I struggled to come up with a lucid response that would make me appear hip and open- minded with regard to partying in the nude. But I just kept muttering, "Uh-huh... mm-hmm," all the while praying that their friend would return and they would leave or that the nurse would call my name and rescue me. The conversation had been going so well and I was really enjoying talking with them. Until, that is, they brought up the whole nude party thing. Now, instead of smiling and chatting, I was bargaining with God to get me out of this conversation. I promised to work with orphans in Malawi, widows in Haiti—and a lot of other people in places I can't even spell—if we could just change the subject. No such luck. As Denise went on about the beauty of the human body, I couldn't help but think about logistical issues like whether their furniture was fabric, how high the serving table would be, and if snapshots would be taken. Do you wear clothes to the party and then take them off, or do you just go in an overcoat like a flasher? Do you wear shoes? What if you're in an accident on the way? What is proper "nude etiquette" in situations involving hugging, spilling food or drink in your lap, or interacting with your host's crotch-sniffing dog?

"Alan Simmons?" the nurse called from the door.

Thank you, God. Oh, wait ... crap. I wonder what it's like in Malawi...

~Alan

Lolli-STOP

2009-08-26T19:35:00.006-05:00

I think I'm watching way too much television. I assume most of you have seen the latest Dell commercial with the "Lollipop, Lollipop" musical production. Guys in overalls and hardhats mincing around a huge computer manufacturing plant which, for some reason, has an assembly line comprised mostly of cartoon robots. And the song? Is seared into my brain like grill marks on a steak. Scorched gray matter aside, I noticed on the most recent airing of the commercial—a number so high that it utilizes an exponent—that the “workmen” don’t actually...work. Instead, they dance around and sing, watching the little robots do all the work. They stand idly by with their hands in their pockets, smiling and whistling while the robots squirt out the goo for the computer, stamp it out flat, and paint the logo on the back. What if we were to bring in an HR specialist to analyze the efficiency of this operation? These guys would be in the unemployment line faster than you can say “Lollipop.”

~Alan

Dining Mediocrity

2009-08-06T19:35:00.005-05:00

Mary and I are enjoying a few days in Branson, MO, before she starts back to school next week. We arrived last night, had a great night's sleep, and started the day today with breakfast at a place called Peppercorn's that features breakfast, lunch, and dinner buffets. It's a nice-looking place from the outside, although the out-of-place cast-iron bathtub out front probably should have been a warning. The tables were all covered in that 1970's nasty pink laminate, and the carpet looked like something Grandma might have thrown out. The windows were covered in curtains that looked as if they were made from old colonial American flags (the ones that had thirteen stars in a circle), decor that seemed to say, "We're proud of our Southern heritage, and we have serious boundary issues when it comes to decorating with symbols of national freedom." The guy that waited on us looked like he may have spent a little time as a roadie for Aerosmith. Between stints in prison, that is. And he talked the whole time about how much he hated "this job" because of all the "freakin' foreigners" that are in the food business now that "can't speak American". Okay, I'll give him that last one, but until you line up another job that doesn’t “suck the life out of you”, shut your spit cave and bring me my sweet tea.

The buffet, while a delightful break from Sir Bitchalot, was a truly dismal little piece of real estate. I've seen more variety—not to mention more appealing food—under heat lamps at convenience stores. The most interesting item was the bacon. It looked as if someone had cooked up a huge batch of crispy bacon strips and then pummeled them with a saucepan until they were in pieces slightly larger than bacon bits. Mary tried to be optimistic, referring to it as a “topping” for the eggs, but I was beginning to feel guilty about picking this place. Waiting at the cashier seemed like an eternity. For one thing, there was an Indian family in front of us scrutinizing their bill. Um, yeah, it’s a little late for that, Haji. Load the kids and the wife on your flying carpet and get out of my way. Which he would have done, but Agnes at the register was so slow that by the time we got to her I needed to shave. Leaving the restaurant—and I use that term loosely—we were approached by an older couple about to go in. The man asked me if I “had left any food for them.” (Yeah, I’ve never heard that one before). The woman, still giggling from her husband’s clever remark, mentioned that they had heard mixed reviews about the place, and asked if was good. And I don’t feel a bit guilty about telling them that it was one of the best restaurants we’d ever eaten at.

~Alan

Ahhhh...

2009-07-12T18:32:00.002-05:00

The waterfall. Such a simple thing, yet incredibly splendid and special. This one is at the end of a service road behind a hardware store off of the highway, all but hidden from view. Sometimes the best things in life turn up in the most unexpected places.

I Pity the Fool...

2009-07-05T16:38:00.001-05:00

I love infomercials for the same reason I love bad movies; because they’re just so easy to make fun of. And—mature person that I am—that’s what entertains me. Take this afternoon, for example. I was channel surfing while Mary was napping. I ran across several infomercials, but the one that caught my attention immediately was the starring Mr. T in an apron. He was paired up with some scrawny little white woman, and together they were explaining the benefits of being able to roast an entire chicken in eleven minutes. They were selling one of those set-it-and-forget-it-type countertop cookers, and although the volume was very low since Mary was asleep, I could have sworn I heard him say, “I pity the fool who cooks his bird in the microwave.” It struck me as a sad moment. It’s like seeing a huge pit bull wearing one of those plastic collars so he can’t lick himself. He knows that you know he’s humiliated, yet it’s something he’s got to do. After beating the crap out of Sylvester Stallone as Clubber Lang in Rocky III, it must be unbelievably emasculating to be a sidekick to some infomercial bimbo and say lines like, “I can’t believe this cake was cooked on the countertop. It’s so moist!” It’s Mr. T, for crying out loud. At least write the lines like we would expect him to deliver them. “Woman, dis cake is moist as hell! You bes’ git me some mo’ or I’ll tear dis place up!” But, no. He’s lifting the lid off of this cooker to reveal a perfectly-cooked steak. As he cuts into it and turns it to show its inside to the camera, he says, “See that wisp of pink? Now that’s a good steak!” I can’t take it anymore. I’m changing the channel. And if I run across Hulk Hogan making smoothies in a Magic Bullet™, I’m calling it a day.

~Alan

Porn!

2009-06-13T14:53:00.006-05:00

Nothing unravels the fabric of a wholesome family vacation like a little porn. A couple of years ago Mary and I spent a few days in Branson, MO, with my parents and my brother, Steve, and his wife, Wanda, at a very nice condo on the lake. During the day we shopped, checked out local attractions, and found great places to eat. In the evenings we would retire, exhausted, to the condo, some of us playing cards or dominoes while others read or watched television. On one of these nights, as Mary, Mom, Steve, and I sat around the table playing a mindless game of Go Fish, Wanda perused the local newspaper, and Dad flipped through channels on the television. Unfamiliar with the remote, Dad was studying it, tilting his head back to peer down at it through his bifocals, eyebrows raised, mouth moving slightly as he read the labels on the buttons. The television’s volume was low, and as we stared at our cards, the background noise provided by Dad's channel surfing was almost hypnotic. A tiny burst of static, then a short preview of the channel, and then another little burst of static.

PSSHT—where, just last year, Egyptians were struggling just to—PSSHT—would not comment, saying only that House and Senate leaders agreed earlier today on—PSSHT—just a little salt to season. You don't want to add a lot, because the bacon—PSSHHT—these three titanium blades that chop the food while they mix it, giving you the perfect—PSSHT—oooh, that’s right…oooh, I like it when you do that…

This channel selection naturally seized our attention and everyone looked up at each other and then at the television, except for Mom, who was arranging her cards into a neat fan, and Dad, who was still looking down through his bifocals at the remote trying to make sense of the buttons. On the screen were four naked women in a hot tub, writhing and moaning—honestly, there may have been more, but it was difficult to tell, as some of them were partially submerged. Having been raised to be fairly modest, we were initially speechless. Each of us thought—prayed, even—that maybe he would just keep clicking through the channels and away from the virtual slip and slide that was taking place on the screen. When, after a few seconds, we realized that he was unaware of his viewing choice, Mary was the first to speak, but she could only manage one word.
"PORN!" she sputtered, pointing at the television with one hand, and tugging at my shirt sleeve with the other.

Nodding my head but still unable to speak, I reached over to nudge Steve, but because he embarrasses easily, he had quickly left the table to go outside and smoke a cigarette. Wanda, who also is prone to embarrassment, had brought her newspaper up close in front of her face as if she were reading a tiny little article. Mary continued to tug at my sleeve like a child trying to draw someone’s attention to an approaching tidal wave. Or a hot tub full of naked women. “Um, porn! Porn!” she blurted helplessly. Mom looked up and turned to see what was on the screen. She chuckled, and then turned back to her cards. “John, change the channel, honey,” she announced calmly. Dad looked up just in time to see the gals changing position. Like cheerleaders readying themselves for the big finish at the state finals, they clambered over one another, splashing and cooing. Dad immediately went into panic mode and began trying to change the channel, but instead began raising the volume.

“OOOH, THAT’S IT…THAT’S IT…YES!!”

Instinctively, we all scrambled towards him to try and silence the television.
“Just turn it off,” my mother instructed Wanda, who was now searching the front of the set for a power button. Or any button.
“There’s no buttons on the front!” Wanda shrieked. “Why aren’t there buttons?!”
Eyeing what I thought might be a button, I asked, “Isn’t that the power button right there, Wanda?”
“Where?!” she cried, her eyes racing over the front panel.

“RIGHT THERE!! OH YES! RIGHT THERE! RIGHT THERE!”

“The little red button on the left!” I snapped. Mary had gone to get Steve, but when he came in and saw what was taking place, he immediately turned and walked right back out, tapping another cigarette out of his pack.
“That’s not even a button, that’s the infrared thingy for the remote!” Wanda snapped back.
“Then just unplug it!” I shouted. “Just make it stop!”

“DON’T STOP! OOOOH, DON’T STOP…”

Meanwhile, Mom and Dad, who by this time were in full Hail-Mary mode, began pressing random buttons on the remote in hopes of finding some magic combination that would bring an end to the earsplitting love fest.
“Will you please hand me that?” I said through clenched teeth, extending my hand for the remote. Snatching it away from them, I lowered the volume, changed the channel, and then turned the set off. Everyone was motionless for a moment, steeping in the abrupt quietness of the room. I gently set the remote on top of the television and stood back up, awkwardly stuffing my hands in my pockets. Hearing that the commotion had stopped, Steve wandered back in and was leaning against the refrigerator. We all spoke at once.

“Ok, I’m calling it a night…” “It’s past my bedtime…” “I think I’ll turn in…” “I’m beat…” “I’ve got to get something from the car…” “Is it nine-thirty already?”

We didn’t speak of it again, and the remote remained on top of the television for the rest of the trip.

~Alan

Re: Hygiene

2009-06-08T21:39:00.002-05:00

To: The driver of a red Ford Bronco whom I had the unfortunate experience of being stuck behind

From: Alan Simmons

Date: June 8, 2009

Re: Hygiene

There is no easy or delicate way to say this, sir. You stink. I was northbound on Walton Blvd. today when I let you in front of me as you exited the Radio Shack parking lot. It wasn’t long before I regretted that decision. The weather was nice, so I didn’t need the A/C, but I had my vents open to get a little air. As I rode behind you, a distinctly pungent odor began to creep through my vents and into my vehicle, invading—no, violating my nostrils. That odor? That would be your nasty body, sir. Do you know what it means when your body odor is so powerful that the person in the vehicle behind you can smell it? In the simplest of terms, it means that you need a bath. Not just a bath; you need a scrubbing down that would make the shower scene from Silkwood look like a baby christening. I can’t even begin to wrap my head around how you got to your present level of stinkiness without a family member, friend, or—let’s face it—neighbor saying something to you. It’s called soap, sir, and it’s available at most fine retailers. It doesn’t matter what brand or scent you choose (at this point, vinegar would be a step in the right direction). But here’s the trick with soap: you have to use it every day. And be careful; something tells me that you may, at least initially, have an adverse reaction to it. Keep some Benadryl nearby just in case. And let’s not forget deodorant. A couple of quick swipes or sprays will do wonders. I’m tempted to suggest additional methods for you to de-stinkify yourself, e.g., burning your clothes and vehicle, but let’s keep it simple for now. Now go. Buy soap, deodorant, and no fewer than a dozen of those little pine trees to hang in your vehicle. Let Operation Loofah commence! And in the mean time? Roll up your windows, dude. Seriously.

When Nature Calls

2009-06-05T22:10:00.006-05:00

When the urge to pee hits, it's an unmistakable feeling. A feeling I recently encountered in a local convenience store. After asking the clerk where the facilities were, I made my way into the back past stacks of boxes and shelves of cleaning supplies to the bathroom. It was a one-seater with a tiny stall next to an out-of-order urinal. Inside the stall, a stainless steel toilet paper dispenser served as a shelf for a tall can of disinfectant spray on one side, and a simple bolt latch locked the stall door. The toilet sat up high, and inside the bowl was an enormous wad of toilet paper floating in what looked like raw sewage. As I began to conduct my business, I found myself absentmindedly humming the Doobie Brothers' Black Water. Moments later, experiencing the complete and total relief that only comes from an empty bladder, I began to put myself back together. I have a rule on flushing. In a public restroom, if I sense a potential overflow situation, I don't flush. And since what I added was significantly less disgusting than what was already in there, I had no intention of flushing. I turned slightly to retuck my shirt, and the toilet flushed.

A wave of terror washed over me as I realized the toilet was an auto flush. As the contents of the bowl began to rise, I began to panic, fumbling with my button and zipper. I turned again to let myself out, and my elbow hit the can of spray on the dispenser, knocking it to the tile floor. The tip of the spray mechanism must have hit at just the right angle, because it snapped off and sent the can into a violent tailspin. I screamed like a girl as disinfectant spray began to fill the stall and the can spun wildly, clattering and clanging against the porcelain base of the toilet and the wall. The rotating evil in the bowl was quickly reaching the point of no return, and I tugged at the latch desperately like the victims you see in horror movies who are trying to escape from the guy with the chainsaw. I grasped clumsily at the tiny metal latch with my now-sweaty hands, but it wasn't budging. The fumes from the spray stung my eyes and left a bitter, chemical taste that burned my mouth and nose. And it was at that moment that I heard the most horrifying sound one can hear in a public restroom: water spilling over the rim of the toilet bowl and onto the floor. I’d been putting it off, but now it was time to bargain with God. I promised a lifetime of servitude in every war-torn and disease-ridden country I could think of, pledging to care for the blind, the deaf, the young, and the old.

I could only imagine what it must have looked and sounded like from outside the stall. A vile pool of murky water seeping out from under the stall, spreading across the tile floor; the frantic prayers of a hysterical man, barely audible over the clanging and hissing of a runaway aerosol can rocketing around the small room like a Jack Russell Terrier; the cloudy haze of disinfectant that hung in the air; the persistent rattling of the stall door, and the violent rocking of the stall itself, which pitched back and forth like a cage containing a wild animal. Giving the latch one final wrench, I heard it snap, and the door swung open. I made my way across the slippery tile floor to the sink, jerking and sliding as if I were taking my first ice-skating lesson. I leaned on the sink and closed my eyes for a moment. What had felt like a half-hour ordeal had taken only about a minute. The spray can was now spent, sputtering its final drops in the corner. Straightening up to regaining my composure, I washed and dried my hands and exited the bathroom, stopping only long enough to flip the switch under the sign that read, “Let Us Know if Restroom Needs Attention.”

~Alan

The Wreck

2009-06-04T20:03:00.004-05:00

I saw the truck swerve across the highway and plow into the grass median, flipping it and jack-knifing the trailer it towed, sending a splash of sod and grass into the air. As it settled in the fresh dirt, other drivers began pulling over and getting out of their cars, cell phones in hand. As I got closer I noticed one woman with fresh tears streaming down her cheeks, which, for some reason, annoyed me. Unless she knew the driver, why would she cry over a complete stranger in a (most likely) non-fatal accident? The cars lining the sides of the road began to slow traffic, which annoyed me even more. Let's go people, I thought as I tried to maneuver into a different lane to get past the car in front of me, which had slowed to a crawl even though there wasn't car in front of it. Finally free of the cluster of onlookers, I found open road and picked up speed, leaving the now-smoking accident in the rear-view mirror.

As I lay in bed that night, I began to evaluate my actions. Replaying my thoughts from the accident, I began to feel a little ashamed. What happened to me? Have I lost the compassion that I used to have for others? Am I so jaded that I no longer even feel the compulsion to help someone in need? I tried to justify my actions to myself. There were so many people stopped. I would have just been in the way. Someone else helped the driver, I'm sure. Exactly. Someone else. And that bothered me, because not helping people? Is not who I am or what I'm about. I know better than that. I remember a time when I would go out of my way to help someone. In the late eighties I was out one night with one of my best friends from high school, Bobby, when we saw a pickup truck smash into a sedan at an intersection. An explosion of tempered glass and twisted metal littered the rain-soaked street, and while other cars were just starting to slow down, Bobby and I had already pulled over and begun to approach the wreck. We had just returned a few weeks earlier from ten weeks of combat medic training at Fort Sam Houston, and we were prepared. We had even called dibs; I took the pickup and he took the sedan.

The driver of the pickup was bleeding badly. The collision had launched him into the windshield, and now blood was pouring from a hundred little cuts on his forehead like water through a sieve, matting his black hair against his head like a thick red carpet. As I attended to him, the sickly-sweet aroma of alcohol paired with his incessant—and unintelligible—chatter made it obvious that he had passed "drunk" quite some time ago and was now on the cusp of "sloshed". I fashioned a crude cervical collar out of a towel from Bobby's car and secured it around his neck like a long, thick scarf. As I the held the end of the towel against his forehead and tried to keep him from moving, he babbled on incoherently through the blood, which now just trickled from his forehead. He had no idea he had been in an accident. I suppose when you're that inebriated, the brain fills in the blank spots with familiar things, the way you wake up from a dream about a beeping dump truck backing up, only to discover it’s your alarm clock. With the towel, the line of cars, and the falling rain, he apparently thought we were at a car wash and I was the attendant.

The woman driving the sedan, who was wearing her seatbelt, had several cuts on her face as well. And she was furious at the other driver. Her light was green and she was halfway through the intersection when Chatty McDrinksalot t-boned her. He never even hit his brakes. Bobby was trying to hold a t-shirt against her wounds, but she kept yelling around him at the drunken pickup driver. Each time she screamed at him, he would chuckle and, without moving, yell back for her to wait her turn. As the police and ambulance pulled up, Bobby and I, with a few other bystanders who had called 911, explained to them what had happened. We got in the car to leave, sinking down into the seats and exhaling for what felt like the first time in days. Our hands, shirts, jeans, and shoes were covered with streaks and splotches of blood, and the blue and red lights flashing through the rain on the windshield drew strange patterns on top of it. But we wore that blood like a badge of honor, proud that we had helped someone else. I’m still proud to tell that story.

As I lay in the nearly-dark room staring at the ceiling fan rotating slowly above me, I had a sudden moment of clarity; an ironic, sad realization that draped itself over me like a thick, heavy quilt. I still care about what happens to people. I still have compassion for others; I never lost it. I just haven't used it.

~Alan

Letters from Home - Gerald Wayne's Pit Stop

2009-05-27T19:41:00.002-05:00

I am always amazed at how seemingly harmless events can, in an instant, truly make or break someone’s day. The latest letter from home is a perfect example…

Dear son,

It’s been awhile since I wrote you last. How have you been lately? We’re doing pretty fair here. Daddy’s doing real well and I’m feeling pretty good, too. We even went to a Sunday school potluck reunion at Maynard Park last Sunday. It sure was a lot of fun. We saw folks we haven’t seen in years. Some of them we thought were already dead. I’m trying to remember who all was there… well, we saw Frank and Selma Jean Burgess, Jo Lynn Carney (she’s 58 and still single, poor thing), Chester McCarthy and his new wife Clara, Virgil Stutes, Raymond and Earlene Betts – oh, and Mary Beth Sizemore was there showing off her new artificial hip. She was prancing around in the ugliest mumu-looking thing, bragging about how it was some kind of fancy Italian silk (Dupont, I think she said) and how her son bought it for her in Milan. I don’t know what she thinks the big deal is. We’ve been to Milan a hundred times or more. Your daddy and me go to the flea market next to the Tennessee National Guard armory up there almost every weekend. Anyway, she hugs everybody she meets whether she knows them or not so they’ll feel like they have to stay and talk. But they don’t ever get a chance to talk. They just have to stand there and listen to her tell that awful story about how long her hip operation was and how she had to go through all that physical therapy and then find out that her female therapist Jolene was a Lebanese (you know, she likes women instead of men). Norma Faye Sprague was doing her best to avoid her but Mary Beth just loves her to death. Norma Faye can’t stand Mary Beth but she doesn’t have the heart to tell her. You know how she hates conflict. Norma Faye would walk a mile to avoid an argument. She said to tell you hello, by the way. She’s still teaching piano up at the community center. Bless her heart, I don’t know how in the world she does it with half a liver.

Anyway, she had her nephew Cleavon and his boy Gerald Wayne with her. Cleavon is Norma Faye’s brother Harland’s middle boy. He works in his daddy’s septic business, but he can’t drive on account of he’s got that necrophilia, where you just fall asleep all of a sudden. Anyway, Gerald Wayne’s a cute little thing. He’s about four and he had just gotten one of those play tattoos to match his daddy’s NASCAR tattoo. Lord have mercy, that boy loves NASCAR. Knows every single driver and everything about them. Well, we were standing there talking and Gerald Wayne started pulling on his daddy’s jeans saying, “Pit stop, daddy, pit stop!” Well Maynard Park tore down all their bathrooms years ago after those high school kids got in there and wrote nasty words on the walls in poop. Norma Faye told Cleavon to take him across the way to the Pic Pac Grocery. But Gerald Wayne was hollering, “I got to go pit stop now!!” So Cleavon pulled a 7-11 cup out of the bed of Norma Faye’s truck for him to go in and stood him up right there on the tailgate. Let me tell you what, that boy did need a pit stop. We kept hearing the cup getting fuller and fuller (and it’s real hard to have a conversation when that’s going on) and Cleavon started saying, “Son, stop… stop, now… stop, stop, STOP!!”

The next thing we heard was a great big splash. Cleavon hollered like he’d been shot, came staggering around the side of the truck, and said some words I don’t care to repeat. Apparently he panicked and tried to back up and let go of the cup, but it hit the edge of the tailgate, splashed up and covered him from head to toe in pee. His shirt was wet, his jeans were wet, and he was white as a ghost. You’d think a fellow that traipses around and other folks’ poop all day wouldn’t be bothered by a little pee, but just between you and me, Cleavon’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Anyhow, poor little Gerald Wayne was still standing there peeing off the edge of the tailgate with his britches down around his ankles. He looked like one of those fountains you see in fancy hotel lobbies. Norma Faye told Cleavon to go over and get some paper towels from the end of the food line while she took care of Gerald Wayne. He went stomping off and I helped Norma Faye get Gerald Wayne cleaned up and get his little britches pulled back up. We were washing his hands when we heard a scream. We turned and saw Mary Beth standing in front of Cleavon and she was wet all down her front. She figured she’d tell him about her new hip and her Lebanese therapist, so as soon as he got close enough she grabbed him and gave him a big old hug. I reckon she didn’t notice he was covered in pee until it had soaked into her fancy new Dupont mumu. Let me tell you, Mary Beth like to have come unglued right there on the spot. She was hollering and fussing at Cleavon, then she came over and hollered and fussed at Norma Faye, and then she just busted into tears, got in her car, and took off like the dickens. I was glad because I figured this meant Norma Faye would finally be shed of her, but do you know she’s already wanting to buy Mary Beth another one of them mumus since the pee smell wouldn’t come out? I guess we’ll take her and Cleavon and Gerald Wayne with us next weekend when we go to Milan and see if we can find her one up at the flea market. Well, I’ve about talked your ear off so I’ll say bye for now. You take care, and we’ll see you later on.

Love,

Mom and Dad

Shut Up and Pee

2009-05-23T21:30:00.006-05:00

I really am an advocate of cell phones. Really. I believe that, not unlike computers or lawn darts, cell phones are intrinsically good but often misused. Or maybe overused is the term I’m searching for. At any given point in your day, you can look around and see people talking and driving. Talking and shopping. Talking and eating. Have we, as a society, really gotten so busy that we’re forced to multi-task all the freakin’ time? If this is indeed the case, we need some boundaries as to what activities may be conducted simultaneously. I submit the following for your amusement:

I stopped by Wal-Mart yesterday to pick up a few things and made a quick stop in the restroom because I had to pee like Seabiscuit. As I was washing my hands afterward, a really skeevy-looking guy in a Motley Crue tee shirt, ratty jeans, and flip flops came flapping in and sidled up to the urinal. As he was, um, “conducting his business”, he pulled out his cell phone to make a one-handed call and then began talking so loudly that I nearly soiled myself.

“HEY, IT’S ME… YEAH, I’M IN BENTONVILLE…IN WAL-MART.”

In the bathroom. Talking to you while I urinate.

“NO, HE AIN’T CALLED YET. HE BETTER SOON, OR I’LL WRING HIS NECK”

I hope he washes his hands first...

“ARE Y’ALL COMIN’ TO THE WEDDIN’?”

Ah, redneck nuptials are afoot.

“Y’ALL BETTER BE THERE. IF I’VE GOT TO BE THE (expletive deleted) BEST MAN, Y’ALL BETTER SHOW UP.”

They’ve consciously chosen to let him hold the ring? Now I really hope he washes his hands.

“HELL, YEAH WE’RE GETTIN’ DRUNK. THAT’S WHAT WEDDIN’S ARE FOR, MAN.”

Yeah. Pretty sure that’s just what God had in mind when he created the institution of marriage. One man. One woman. And an open bar.

“OK, I’LL LET YOU GO. YOU TELL DEAN TO CALL ME TODAY. LATER.”

With that, he slipped the phone back into his pocket, finished up, and walked right past the sink and out the door. I wish I knew how to warn Dean…

~Alan

Mixed Emotions

2009-05-20T17:09:00.004-05:00

Wow. It's been way too long since I posted on here. My new work schedule is taking some getting used to. Actually, the fact that I'm working at all is taking some getting used to. I've gone from not working at all to working a 7 to 4 job, plus some half Saturdays. But, that said, I love my job. I love having a job. I love the people I work with and the work that I do. I just never realized how free my time was. I could go to Barnes & Noble or the library and read for hours at a time, work in my studio composing music or doing voiceover work, or catch up on stuff around the house. Now, though? I'm finding it tough to fall into a routine. I have yet to manage my time well enough to make a lunch in the morning, and that's a real problem because the prices in my employer's cafeteria border on obscene. It sounds terribly whiny, I know, especially to those who are still searching for a job. Hang in there. Do NOT give up. And if there's something you really want to accomplish in your life—learning a new language, rearranging all the furniture in your home, etc.—do it now while you have time. Otherwise, when you do land a job you may be like me, looking back with a bit of regret. But the other side of the new-job coin, though, is being able to look forward with a glimmer of hope.

~Alan

What a Relief it is...

2009-05-02T14:16:00.002-05:00

I did something this week I haven't done in more than a year. I went to work. I found a job posting online for a proofreader and, like most of the other two-hundred-and-something jobs I've looked at in the past year, I applied for it. Unlike the other jobs, I got this one. It seemed funny to me that after searching for more than a year, I applied for, interviewed for, and was offered a job over the span of just a few days. I started this past Monday, working for, um, let's just say a large retailer located here in Northwest Arkansas. The team I work with is proofing packaging changes to certain products, so there's a lot of making sure that the packages and labels match the database and adhere to the company's packaging standards. The work isn't difficult, but it can be tedious and time-consuming. I work with a team of about a half-dozen women, all of whom are funnier and, I fear, infinitely smarter than me (for instance, they would correct that last word to "I"). But they seem to have accepted me as a teammate, and that makes me happy.

The brevity of this post is due to the fact that I'm typing on my wife's laptop, and with my huge hands, it's not unlike watching a monkey type with boxing gloves on. My computer's been in the shop this week. I had gotten it back once, but was unable to reload Windows for some reason (I suspect it has to do with the whole monkey/boxing glove thing), so I took it back and let the professionals do it. That way, I'm free to do other things like, say, eat bananas and work on the speedbag.

~Alan

Fun With Email...

2009-04-20T14:49:00.008-05:00

I received an email recently that made me laugh at first, and then it made me a little mad. As those of you who know me are aware, I've been job hunting for a year now after losing my corporate job due to a "restructuring". April 17th, 2009 was my one year anniversary of being unemployed. The email was so obviously a scam that it tickled me at first. But then I started thinking about all the folks out there in the same boat, the ones who maybe didn't recognize it as a scam and are desparate enough to try anything at this point, and I got a little miffed. So I am posting the email, along with my response, and the email address it came from. Feel free to use it to sign up for newsletters, join free online clubs and subscriptions, etc. Granted, it's a disposable address, so he's just going to delete it and move on, but I'm in a vengeful mood today and I think it would be fun. So let's fill his mailbox up with crap, shall we?

Dear Alan Simmons,

My name is Keith Morris and I represent Key Group Company.This letter confirms that your resume (found at careerbuilder.com) has been duly processed and your skills completely meet our requirements for Financial Managervacancy.Key Group Inc. is a world-famous company founded and based in the USA,which deals with financial services like escrow services for buyers and sellersof online auctions around the world. We offer our services both on closedcommercial auctions where the number of buyers is not large and on ebay.com,amazon.com, yahoo.com - popular online auctions.

Financial Agent position is:- part-time (you can work only 2-3 hours a day (Monday through Friday). - work at home (all communication is online).

What do you need? Internet access and e-mail. This position is offered on a trial period (first month) basis.

You will receive training and online support while working and being paid.Trial period is paid $2300/month. Also you will be keeping 8% commission fromevery payment received from customer and successfully processed. Total income,with the current volume of clients, will be up to $4.5k per month. After first 30 days base salary will be increased up to $3k per month, plus 8%commission! You may ask for additional hours after trial period, or proceed full-time. If you are interested in our offer and would like to learn more about FinancialAgent position, please send the filled form to job.keith.key@gmail.comOur representative will contact you within 24 hours.

++++++++FORM++++++++FORM+++++++++++
First name:_____________________
Last name:___________________________
Country of residence:__________________
Contact phone:______________________
Preferred call time:_______________________
++++++++FORM++++++++FORM+++++++++++

We found your resume at www.careerbuilder.com. This letter confirms that yourresume has been duly processed and your skills completely meet our requirementsfor the Financial Manager vacancy.

Best regards,

Keith Morris
Key Group Inc.

---------------------------------------------------

Hi Keith,

Thanks very much for your offer. I'd like to get a little more information about Key Group Inc. After searching for your website, I found many companies called Key Group, Inc., but none that offer the services you refer to in your email. Most likely a technicality, although I can't help but wonder why an email from a world-famous company came from a disposable Gmail account rather than the company's domain. Oh, well. Another technicality, I'm sure. I am extremely excited to learn that my skills as a replenishment analyst have prepared me for the world of high finance! And imagine my enthusiasm at learning I would be earning $2300 plus an 8% commission a month for 2-3 hours a day! It almost seems...well, too good to be true. I can't wait to receive my next email from you, telling me about the history of your fine organization, the corporate culture, where you're based, and a few details about the Financial Manager position that I'm anxious to fill.

Warmest regards,

Alan

-------------------------------------------------------------------

Funny, I haven't heard back from him.

~Alan

A Boy and His...Duck?

2009-04-20T09:48:00.003-05:00

As a lover of animals, I’ve had some great pets throughout the years, but none quite as memorable—or unusual—as my pet duck. Ours was an unlikely bond formed through a series of what most would describe as far-fetched events. In the spring of 1974, my parents and I were at my grandparents’ home on our property in Pope, Mississippi, where we spent most of our weekends. We had fifty-six acres of land, which included three ponds, a dozen or so cattle, and the single-wide trailer where my grandparents lived. My parents built a small cabin on a hill overlooking the biggest of the three ponds. It wasn’t grand, but it was fun. It had a wood burning stove, a bed, and a bathroom. What else do you need, really? They’d also built a small doghouse for the handful of ducks that had taken up residence on the big pond. We had stuffed the inside with hay and made it comfortable for them. We had suspected for a while that the female was soon to lay eggs, so we checked the nest every weekend. One morning we approached the little house to find duck feathers outside the entrance. The ducks were nowhere to be seen. Inside were three little speckled eggs, two of which had been destroyed. It was probably coyotes, my parents said, that had gotten to them. My mother decided we were going to give the one remaining egg every chance, so we took it back to Grandma and Grandpa’s chicken coop and put it in the nest of a setting hen who was already on a couple of her own eggs.

We checked the egg on every visit to see if the hen had discarded it, but it was still secure in the nest. Finally about a month later we crept into the coop to see how our little one was doing. A sickening feeling washed over me when I saw a little wet clump of hairy duckling on the cool dirt floor of the coop. The egg had hatched, and the hen, seeing that this wasn’t one of hers, had scratched him out of the nest. We first assumed he was dead, but then a little shiver rocked his tiny frame. My mom, scooping him up and holding him against her chest, told me to get a box and put a blanket in it. We set up a makeshift incubator with a shop light clamped to the box to keep the little guy warm. We fed him with an eyedropper at first until he graduated to chick feed. It wasn’t very long before the egg that we didn’t have much hope for became a fuzzy little duckling, stumbling around his cardboard townhouse, peeping constantly. Since school was now out for the summer, I begged my parents to let me take him home with us when we returned to Memphis. They finally caved, and when we left that Sunday afternoon, I set the little cardboard box between my feet in the floorboard of our truck. As the trees and mile markers of Interstate 55 flew by, I began to think about what to name him.

Over the next several days, we played in my Mr. Turtle pool in the back yard—oddly enough, his least favorite thing to do. I would toss him in the six-inch-deep water and he would come racing out, wings flapping and feet paddling like mad. We tried other venues—the bathtub, the sink, a washtub—to acclimate him to water and swimming, but got the same result. I’d never seen a duck who didn’t like water. Mom said he was daffy, and it stuck. Daffy. What he lacked in aquatic proclivity, however, he made up for with personality. No matter where I was, that’s where he wanted to be. When I sat in my room and listened to music or talked on the phone, he was there to play with the telephone cord or slide around on the pile of cassettes on my bed. When I watched TV and snacked on the couch in the living room, he sat next to me, picking at whatever food I had on my plate. And when I walked next door to nap in our neighbors’ hammock, he was right behind me the whole way, his little webbed feet slapping the ground as fast as they could. As I settled into the hammock, I placed him gently on my chest, where he stayed, content to nap with me while the warm June breeze blew through the trees, the rustle of leaves gently singing us to sleep.

As he grew, it became more and more obvious that the best thing for him was to take him back to the pond on our property. My parents told me repeatedly that it was time to turn him loose and let him be a duck. The only problem was that I hadn’t taught him how to be a duck. He was more like a dog, and a spoiled one at that. During the trip back to Mississippi to release him, he sat on my lap in the truck and stared out the window until we both went to sleep. When we finally arrived, the abrupt silence of turning off the gravel road onto the soft grass of the pasture woke us both. We sat him on the ground and expected him to take to his new surroundings. But he didn’t. He continued to follow me wherever I went. Thinking he might follow me into the pond, I waded in up to my waist, but he wanted nothing to do with it. He paced along the edge of the pond, as if he were trying to figure out how to get to me without getting in the water. We tried several times to put him in the pond, but each time he’d come flapping and squawking out like he’d done in the pool. It’s not like he couldn’t swim—he was a duck, whether he knew it or not—he just didn’t like to. Eventually my father had to push him into the water with a broom and circle the pond to block his exit. After Dad made several trips around the pond, Daffy stayed in the water, but I could feel him giving me the stink eye. This is your fault, he seemed to be saying. If you’d taught me how to act like a duck, I’d be happy now in the water instead of miserable because my butt is wet. As we drove off to visit with my grandparents for a while and let Daffy continue to adjust to his new environment, I felt like I was abandoning him, and I was sure he felt the same way. We stayed at my grandparents’ for a while, and then it was time to head back home. I wanted to go back to the pond to check on Daffy, but my parents said he needed time alone to learn how to be a duck. My grandparents promised to check on him until we came back. Reluctantly, I climbed in the truck and we started the longest trip back home I could ever remember.

The following week, I came in from outside and Mom was on the phone with Grandma. Just before I entered the kitchen I overheard her say, “Probably the coyotes…” Then her eyes met mine and she quickly looked away. My eyes already wet, I stumbled down the hall to my room and flopped onto my bed, waiting for the inevitable. A few minutes later I heard Mom hang up the phone and walk down the hall to my room. She sat on the edge of my bed and explained to me what Grandma had told her—that Daffy was gone. Grandma and Grandpa had looked for him, but he was just gone. I didn’t let on that I had heard about the coyotes, but I suspect she knew. She rubbed my back gently, and then quietly slipped out of the room. As I lay on the bed, I blinked away tears that burned and stung. My mouth tightened and my chin quivered as I broke into wet heaving sobs that soaked my bedspread and left salty streaks down my face. In time I would come to understand that even if I had successfully taught Daffy to act like a duck, to be a duck, this was still likely to happen. It didn’t seem fair. Mom and Dad explained that it was part of life. The worst part, I added, and they agreed.

~Alan

Just Another Saturday

2009-04-17T16:12:00.002-05:00

Today was an interesting day. Mary and I both woke up a little snappy, but not so much at each other as at the world in general. We recently discovered a mammoth pile of items in our garage that, for months, we had been intending to return to various stores, so we decided that would be the most efficient use of our Saturday. Stupid people really get under our skin in a way that makes it nearly impossible for us to resist messing with them. And little things kept triggering our aggravation during the course of the day, fueling our already-established ire. An unbelievably slow driver on the highway held up traffic for miles. Can you not see the speed limit signs posted every twenty feet that say “70 MPH”? Don’t the countless cars passing you like you were sitting still provide you with even the tiniest hint that you need to go faster than 48 freakin’ miles per hour? Then a Hummer with what had to be at least 28 kids in it was front of us at the McDonald’s drive thru. The tiny little female driver stuck her head out the window, on her cell phone, and proceeded to peruse the menu board as if she were seeing these selections for the first time. She then attempted to ask questions about menu items while still carrying on a cell phone conversation, a situation I wouldn’t wish on any drive-thru employee. She continued to hem and haw over the menu with a look of genuine confusion on her face. For the love of Pete—it’s McDonald’s, lady! They’ve only been in business for 50 years! If you don’t know by now what comes on an Egg McMuffin, you should have your U.S. citizenship revoked and be forced to live with a remote tribe in South Africa, where they have to order at the drive-thru speaking with only a series of clicking sounds. Eventually, we made it around, picked up our food, and parked in a nearby spot. After finishing up, we started the long day of returns.

The art of customer service has deteriorated over the years, and we’ve all become so conditioned that we’re not even surprised anymore when someone is annoyed that they’re being forced to do their job. Most of the customer service desks we stood at were staffed by girls in their late teens, girls who, if I had to guess, were forced by their parents to get a job to show that they were capable of being responsible. “If Daddy and I are going to pay for you to go backpacking in Europe for a year, you’re going to have to show us that you’re a big girl.” We trudged in and out of one store after another, each more frustrating than the last, sending our aggravation to dangerous levels. But, as is most often the case, instead of taking it out on each other, we stood back-to-back—figuratively speaking—and let the world have it. Or at least those within range. I dropped Mary off at a clothing store to return some jeans and a shirt while I scooted across the road to an electronics store to return an adapter that didn’t fit the cable I had intended it for. In my return episode, Jeremy, the “friendly associate” at the return desk, took a look at my receipt and, noting it was several months old, asked if there was a problem with it and why I had kept it so long. It didn’t matter why I had kept it so long; I had the receipt and I just wanted to return it. I tried to keep from coming back with a smart answer, but it was out before I could stop it. I calmly explained that I had been in Japan for the last several months competing in a Sumo wrestling tournament and, upon my return, discovered that the adapter still needed to be returned. This seemed to throw him, as it should have, and he cocked his head like a beagle hearing the sound of a kazoo.
“Dude, you’re a Sumo wrestler?”
“Yep. Been slammin’ the fat for nearly twenty years now.”
“That’s awesome! And you were in Japan?”
“Downtown Tokyo. At the Satin Thong Sumo Arena.”
“Sweet…”

Now enamored with my international celebrity status, he processed my return with an almost giddy enthusiasm, the way he might if I were Tom Hanks or Vin Diesel. Once the transaction was complete, I offered a slight bow and squeezed out a very Japanese-sounding “Arigato.” Moments later I picked Mary up from her return, and as she got in the car I was still laughing and couldn’t help but share with her.
She shrieked, “Get out!! I just did the same thing!”
“You told the sales chick you were a Sumo wrestler?”
“No! I told her I’d been in a coma.”
“You what?!”
“She asked me why I was returning the clothes, and I told her I’d bought them just a few days before an accident where I got hit in the head with a piece of lumber. I was in a coma for four months, and when I woke up my clothes didn’t fit.”
I stared at her for a moment, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as if she had a squid on her head.
“What?!” she demanded. “She should have just returned them and kept her pie hole shut!”
“Is your blood sugar low? You’re a little moody.”
“No, my blood sugar’s not low! Although I am a little hungry. Are you hungry?”
“I am, actually,” I said. “What sounds good?”
“Let’s try the new pizza place.” Making the loop out of the mall, we turned onto the main road and began heading for the restaurant. As we approached a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant, Chuck E. himself was out on the sidewalk waving to everyone passing by.
“We could go to Chuck E. Cheese’s,” I said playfully.
“Here’s what I think about that idea,” she said, and casually gave him a one-finger salute.
I sputtered, “Did you just—I can’t believe you just flipped off Chuck E. Cheese!! What kind of person flips off Chuck E. Cheese?!”
“Well, what kind of restaurant has a rat for a mascot? I mean, really?! Besides, I’m moody, remember?”

~Alan

The Phenergan Song

2009-04-05T13:05:00.006-05:00

I was beginning to worry about her. That is, until we were on our way home and she started making up a song about Phenergan. At that point, I began to feel a bit of relief and even amusement at her sudden change in demeanor. A migraine that wouldn’t go away had been plaguing Mary for days, and it wasn’t getting any better. She had called the doctor’s office earlier to make an appointment so she could get some relief. I drove her to her appointment, where the doctor gave her a shot of Phenergan, a drug with powerful sedative properties, after which the doctor asked her to hang around for about fifteen minutes to make sure she didn’t have an allergic reaction to it. As we sat in the waiting room, I looked at her prescriptions. One was for Tylox, a major pain reliever, and another was for more Phenergan—wait, did I read that right?—suppositories? Ok, first… eww. Second, why on earth suppositories? And third, the prescription was written as follows:
30 Phenergan suppositories, one by mouth daily as needed. By mouth? Again, eww.
“Sweetie, did you know that she gave you suppositories?” I whispered.
“Thoshe go innn your booty!” she exclaimed, slurring and giggling, causing everyone in the office to look our way with curious glances.
“Yes, Pumpkin, I know,” I said quietly as I tried to contain her. “The doctor prescribed suppositories instead of pills for you. Did you know that?”
Turning to me with glassy eyes and a silly grin, she looked around before loudly whispering, “She gave me pills for my booty, but that’s icky, so I’m, I’m… not eeeven gonna get that one filled.” Then, with a giggle and a surreptitious glance around the room, she put a finger to her lips and slurred a stealthy “Shhhhhh.” As Mary was quickly slipping into a Phenergan–induced stupor, I thought it best to head home, as it was clear by now that the only reaction she was having was not the kind that required medical attention. We gathered our things and headed for the door so I could get her to bed to sleep it off. Before we could make it out, she turned around and waved to the remaining patients in the waiting room. “Bye, everbodeee!” It’s amazing what one shot can do. Just an hour earlier she was quiet and sullen. Her face looked weak and overwhelmed, eyes tired and squinting. But now, in the car headed to the pharmacy, she’s giggling and singing like a four year old.

Phenergan, I love Phenergan… but nothing rhymes with Phenergan…why is that?
Maybe cinnamon, or cinna-mergen, but it’s reeeeeally hard to rhyme words with Phenergan They gave me a shot in the booty—and it HURT, too! Hee hee… I said booty…
Phenergan, Phenergan… even though it makes my head spin-ergen, I love Phenergan

As we pulled up to the drive through window at our local pharmacy, I saw Angie, one of the techs we know and love, coming to the window. Before I could warn her of Mary’s exceedingly carefree condition, Mary leaned forward in her seat and blurted out, “Hiiii, Angieeee! I got a shot of Phenergan in the booty! And there are no words, noooo words that rhyme with Phenergan, didjoo know that?” Angie raised her eyebrows and looked at me.
“Wow, you did get a shot, didn’t you?” she replied.
“In the booty!” Mary repeated. Handing Angie the prescription, we chatted about this and that while Mary continued singing in the background. As we were waiting, Angie handed us some candy to try.
“It’s like a Heath bar, but not as hard. Crunchier. It’s really good,” I said, munching on it. Mary had stopped singing and was licking the chocolate and toffee off of her fingers.
“Mmmmm, chocolate,” she said, her eyes darting back and forth as if plotting a search for more. I paid for the drugs, exchanged a smile and a laugh with Angie, and we headed for home. The singing had come to an end, and Mary was now in a heavy-eyed daze. As she staggered into the house, she said, “Do you wanna see where I got my shot? They shot me right, right here…” She fiddled clumsily trying to find where her shirt ended and her jeans started. “It’s right here on my booty, and it hurt!” As she searched unsuccessfully for her wound, spinning awkwardly like a dog trying to catch its own tail, I steered her toward the bedroom.
“I bet you’re ready to lie down for a while, aren’t you?” I said soothingly. Raising both arms over her head touchdown-style, she giggled, “Nappytime!!” She quickly got settled on the bed, covered up with a quilt, and asked for an extra blanket. When I returned with it, she had thrown the quilt aside.
“Do you not want the quilt, sweetie?” I asked.
“I do, but, um, I want the blanket on me first, and then, and then the quilt, um, on top of it ‘cause it’s better that way.” As I tucked her in, she sobered slightly. “You’re not gonna write about this, are you?”
“Of course not, sweetie. Night-night.”

~Alan

What Would You Do for $5.84?

2009-03-31T17:23:00.013-05:00

Take a moment and think about it. I'll wait...

Would you spend countless hours on the phone? Would you wipe out reams of paper sending letters requesting said $5.84, not to mention the postage? Would you retain the services of legal counsel to get it? Ok, I'll stop baiting you and tell you what's up. Two months ago, I paid off and closed an account with a bank I'll call, say, "HSBD". The person I spoke to was not proficient in English, leading me to believe she was in an overseas call center. She was, however, quite pleasant. She gave me the amount needed to pay off the account in full and close it, which is what I paid. My next statement showed my final payment of $101.74, and then a balance of $5.84. What the? Looking below, I saw that these were finance charges they were trying to add; a dollar here, two dollars there, etc. I called "HSBD" to inform them there was no way they were getting another dime from me. I spoke to someone who told me that, in so many words, I'd have to pay the $5.84. I ignored their letters and phone calls for weeks until I answered the phone without looking at the caller id. The conversation went a little something like this:

Friendly Customer Rep: Mr. Alan Simmons?

Me: Yep.

FCR: This is (some name) from HSBD regarding an outstanding balance of $5.84 on your account.

Me: I've already paid this account off. It should be closed.

Friendly Customer Rep: No sir, it shows you have a $5.84 balance that will need to be paid first.

Me: No, those are finance charges you added after I paid the balance.

FCR: You've paid the balance?

Me: Yes! $101.74.

FCR: I don't see a balance of $101.74... I do see that a payment was made in that amount on the 4th of January...

Me: (Sigh) That's it. That was the balance I was given to pay off. And I paid it. And now I would like my account closed.

FCR: Well, sir, there's still the matter of the $5.84 on your account.

Me: That's not going to happen. I'm not paying you any more money. The $5.84 on the account is $5.84 that your company is going to have to eat. I've paid off my account.

FCR: Well, then it will have to go to our collections department, sir.

Me: Really? You're going to involve your collections department for $5.84? And if they don't have any luck, I suppose you'll take legal action against me?

FCR: Well, we wouldn't want to, but if you didn't pay collections you'd leave us no choice, sir...

Me: So now you've got all the folks in legal on board with this as well? Do you realize how silly that's going to sound to an attorney with a six-figure salary? Do you, um...what's your name again?

FCR: Nathan.

Me: Nathan, do you understand that you can't even retain an attorney for the amount you'd be asking him to retrieve? Don't feel compelled to answer, Nathan, because if you understood we wouldn't be having this conversation. So here's what I propose. You tell your supervisor that you have a customer who refuses to pay $5.84 in bogus finance charges and you feel that, in light of the small amount in question, it's in the company's best interest to—are you writing this down, Nathan?

Nathan: (shuffling paper) Um, yes...

Me: You feel that it's in the company's best interest to credit me for the $5.84 and close the account so that you don't waste the company's valuable resources over such a petty amount. Did you get all that, Nathan?

Nathan: Yessir...

Two days ago I recieved this letter:

Way to go, Nathan. Way to go.

~Alan

Letters from Home - Uncle Thelbert's Birthday

2009-03-23T14:03:00.012-05:00

My family has never been what people would consider sophisticated. Comedian Jeff Foxworthy has described rednecks as having "a glorious absence of sophistication". Though I wouldn't necessarily put my family in the redneck category, the rest is true enough. Don't get me wrong—they are fantastic people and would do anything to help anyone in any way they could, but erudition has still managed to elude them. Simplicity notwithstanding, they are some of the funniest people I have ever known. The Simmonses are storytellers by nature, so when I get the occasional letter from home, I know some event has taken place and has been chronicled for me. I thought I'd share these letters with you as I get them. If you enjoy them, comment and let me know. Here's the first one...

~Alan

Dear son,

Hey there, how have you been? We’re doing real good. We just got off the phone with your cousin Ardell. He was calling to tell us thank you for taking them to dinner the other night for your Uncle Thelbert’s birthday. We took your suggestion and went to that Japanese place where they cook right there in front of you. We didn’t have to take our shoes off or sit on the floor, either. It’s a good thing, too. We never would have got your daddy back up, much as he ate. We had a real good time. It was us, your daddy’s cousin Junior, Uncle Thelbert and Aunt Vernell, and Ardell and his girlfriend Ruby. Vernell was her usual self. She’s not happy unless she’s miserable, bless her heart.

When we got there, this little gal (she didn’t look oriental, and I didn’t ask, but I’d have thought you’d have to be oriental to work there) anyway, she seated us at a table that already had some other folks at it, but we were spread out pretty good, so that was okay. Then this other little gal came and took our drink orders. She was definitely oriental. Vernell ordered coffee, and this little gal said, “Sorry, no coffee.” Vernell shot her a look and said, “What do you mean no coffee? You mean to tell me y’all don’t serve coffee?” The little oriental gal nodded and apologized again. Vernell threw her hands up and said, “Fine. Just bring me some water. Cold as it is outside and I’ve got to drink ice water.” The gal got around to Thelbert. He had been eyeing them big umbrella drinks with pineapple and cherries and whatnot all in them. He ordered one, and Vernell rolled her eyes and told him he didn’t need one. She just doesn’t have much of a sense of fun, and when other folks enjoy themselves, it annoys her something terrible. We told her, “Vernell, it’s his birthday. If he wants one, let him get it.” She made a face and told him to just get whatever he wanted. When the drinks came out, everybody ooohed and ahhhed over Thelbert’s big old umbrella drink. The top of that thing was a high as the top of his head! Vernell was just steaming, but she managed to keep her mouth shut. We ordered our food, and then we sat and chatted for a little bit.

Pretty soon this young man came rolling a cart of food into where were sitting. He had a big old chef’s hat on and couldn’t hardly speak English. His little name badge said ITSUKI. I don’t know how in the world you say that. He went around and pointed at each of us and told us what we were getting. I couldn’t understand well enough to know if that’s what I ordered, but he had a great big old butcher knife in a holster so we just agreed. Then he commenced to flinging that knife around and banging it on the griddle along with a fork he pulled off his cart. Vernell looked at me and said, “What in the hell is he doing?” I told her I didn’t know, but he was good at it. Then he squirted some kind of oil or something on the griddle there and said something that sounded like “big fire”. He put his lighter down there to the griddle and the whole thing went WHOOOMPH and caught fire. Vernell screamed, the plate in Junior’s head shifted and he wet himself, and the retired firefighter in your daddy kicked in and he got up and started beating the fire out with his coat. I wish you’d have warned me that the fire was “part of the show” as they said. And you really ought to offer to get your daddy a new coat, by the way.

After everything calmed down, Suzuki cleaned the griddle and started cooking the food. He dumped a pan of rice on there big enough to feed an army. Then he got to twirling his spatula around and banging it against his little salt and pepper shakers. He cooked a few shrimp and was flipping shrimp tails around and flipped one up and caught it in his hat. He told Thelbert, “Now you catch”. Thelbert had had a second drink by that time, so he said ok. Vernell wadded up her face, but she didn’t say anything. We had to laugh when Thelbert started emptying out his shirt pocket. Lord have mercy, he had three pens, his glasses, two gas receipts, and a tube of Blistex in there. He pulled his pocket open and Isuzu flipped that shrimp tail right in there on the first try. Then he wanted your daddy to catch one, but I said he couldn’t because he’d forget it was in there and I didn’t want to find it in the wash. Vernell had just about had it. She leaned forward in her seat and said, “Are you about done playing, son? I need to eat so I can take my medicine!” That brought the little oriental girl back over, and she asked him if everything was okay. He said something in Japanese to her and she hung around. Then he bowed at Vernell (I guess that’s how you apologize in Japanese) and started serving up the rice. While he was dishing it out, Vernell got to looking around and said, “Wait, is that all you’re going to cook is rice? Where’s the rest of what we ordered?” Suzuki told her, “Rice first. Then vegetable. Then meat.” That did it for Vernell. She crossed her arms and starting braying like an old mule. “You mean you don’t cook it all together? Why in the Sam D. hell would you cook just one at the time?” She shook her head and got up and grabbed her purse and said, “Well, I’m going next door to the Dixie Café where I can get all my food at once.” Then she shot that little oriental gal a look and said, “And coffee.”

I felt a little bad because none of us went after her, or even tried to convince her to stay. But with her gone, we really had a good time. Poor old Kawasaki looked like he was about to cry, so Thelbert told him, “Son, don’t you worry about her. I’ve been married to that woman for forty-eight years, and I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen her smile or laugh.” That seemed to cheer him up, and he did a little bow to Thelbert and got to flinging his knife and fork around again. He made some real good vegetables, and the best steak I’ve ever had. We sat there as we ate and talked and laughed and had the best time. And when the folks working there found out it was Thelbert’s birthday, they all gathered around him and clapped and sang something. I guess it was their version of Happy Birthday, but it was in Japanese, so I just couldn’t say for sure. They even brought out a big chunk of pineapple with a candle in it. Thelbert was just like a kid, making his wish and blowing his candle out. I’m glad he got to enjoy a little time without Vernell fussing about every little thing he does. We sat and chatted a little longer until they cleared the dishes away and left the check.

About that time, we saw Vernell come back in and make her way over to us. She was a little quieter, but you could still tell she was upset. She said, “Well, are y’all just about done?” We told her we just had to pay the check and we could go. She nodded and looked around and said, “Well, let’s get the ball rolling. Who do we pay, that little Chinese girl or the fella that was out here making all the racket?” Once we got the bill paid, we headed out to the parking lot. Thelbert told Vernell, “Mama, you missed a real good dinner.” She said, “Hmmph. I did no such thing. Y’all were the ones who missed a real meal. And next time y’all come to this place, y’all can just leave me at the house.” Thelbert leaned over to me and whispered, “I just got my wish.”
Well, I guess I’ve about talked you ear off, so I’ll go for now. You take care and we’ll holler at you later.

Love,

Mom & Dad

The Tractor

2009-03-12T16:17:00.004-05:00

It was Saturday morning, between the time that cartoons went off and Tarzan came on. Dad was working and Mom was finishing up some business at the monastery, leaving my older brothers, Steve and John, to care for me. That could only mean one thing: it was tractor time. The one time during the week when parental supervision was at its weakest, providing my brothers the opportunity to launch my tubby carcass down our fifty-five foot hardwood hallway at speeds that would make Jeff Gordon scream like a girl. The year was 1975 and I was the proud owner of a John Deere toy tractor. And it wasn’t some molded plastic pansy toy. It was metal, baby. And I didn’t wear a helmet or pads on my elbows or knees like these sissy kids today do. My accessories were simple—my father’s workshop goggles served as racing goggles and mom’s yellow dishwashing gloves were the perfect driving gloves. As I pushed the tractor to its starting position in front of the back door, my brothers readied the course, first running a dust mop along its length, then making sure that all bedroom doors were open. This would be important later.

I positioned the goggles on my face—they covered my entire face, not just my eyes—and slid the yellow latex gloves on my hands, snapping them for emphasis. My brothers stood behind me, each with a hand on the tractor’s rear frame. I grasped the steering wheel intently, adjusting my clumsy-looking yellow fingers to get the best grip. My feet would rest on the frame behind the front wheels, not on the pedals—at the speed I would soon be traveling, those pedals would be spinning like the blades of a wood chipper. I drew a deep breath and nodded; the signal that I was ready. In the next instant I was propelled forward, my speed quickly increasing. One final thrust meant that my brothers had given their final push and I was now on my own. The hallway blew past me, a blur of pictures and knick-knacks and light fixtures. My optimum speed had been reached; my next challenge would be to wait for my brothers’ command to turn into one of the bedrooms off the hallway. The object was to make the turn in such a way that no part of the tractor struck the doorway, as that would leave irrefutable evidence of our behavior, the punishment for which would be for Dad to either “knock a knot on our head” or the more-feared “jerk a knot in our tail”. The only thing I was allowed to hit was the bed, as any damage could be easily covered up by proper placement of a quilt or blanket.

As I flew along the hall, I neared my doorway and the command was given: “TURN!!” my brothers shouted in unison. I wrenched the wheel violently to the right and the tractor swerved and fishtailed through the doorway without a scratch. However, once I made it through the doorway, I got cocky and took one hand off the wheel. As soon as I realized what I had done, everything went into slow motion and it was as if I were watching myself from above. The tractor began to spin. I tried to turn out of it (or was it into it?) but I couldn’t control it. I was headed straight for the cedar chest. Dear God, not the cedar chest! That was Grandma’s cedar chest that she had given to Mom. If I put so much as a tire mark on it, there would be no knots knocked on my head or jerked in my tail. I would be sold to a gypsy family or a passing carnival and be forced to eat fire or dance for the entertainment of strangers and I didn’t know how to do either of those things. I remember thinking Dear Lord, if you will keep me from hitting the cedar chest, I’ll never do this again. I promise with all my heart, Lord, please just dont' let me hit the cedar chest. With one last effort, I yanked the wheel with such force that my goggles flew off. I remember my body being airborne for what seemed like a half hour—apparently it was only a second or two—and landing upside down in my closet in a tangle of clothes and wire hangers. The tractor lay on its side, one wheel still spinning, just inches from the cedar chest. Thank you, Lord. My brothers burst into the room a la Three Stooges and helped me out of the closet. Stumbling to my feet, I was still covered in the contents of the closet, making me look as if I had been attacked by a dry cleaner. We sat the tractor up and then inspected the cedar chest for damage. Not a scratch. We cheered and high-fived, exuberant in the triumph of a near-perfect execution. They asked if I was ready to do it again. Without a moment’s hesitation, I said, “Help me find my goggles.”

~Alan

Saturday Errands

2009-03-12T16:03:00.008-05:00

It’s 1974 in Memphis, and my mother and I are getting ready to do Saturday morning errands for the monastery. That’s right; we work for a monastery. The Monastery of St. Clare, to be precise. One of only a few monasteries in the US where nuns reside and carry out their daily duties and prayer. Think Sound of Music without the Nazis and that gives you a basic idea. We live on the grounds in a house provided by them and, in exchange for rent and utilities, we run errands for them, take care of custodial issues, and other odds and ends. And yes, this is true. Our house sits across a parking lot from the monastery. So each Saturday, we take their station wagon around town and pick up groceries and general supplies that are donated by shop owners, most of whom are Italian. I wish I had known then to appreciate the rich culture to which I was allowed access. Most of the places we went looked as if they could be locations for scenes from The Godfather. Our first stop was Delicious Foods Bakery off McLean. There we picked up large cardboard boxes overflowing with breads and pastries wrapped in clear plastic bags. I still remember the intoxicating smell of fresh bread, sweet rolls, Danishes, and cookies that we had to endure for hours as we drove from place to place. The old lady behind the counter at Delicious Foods, Mrs. Salvaggio, always gave me one of their behemoth sugar cookies, reaching her wrinkled, jeweled hand across the counter to place it in my chubby little mitts. This was in the days before you had to wear gloves to handle food. The people who manned the counters in those days were likely either the owners or somehow related to them, so there was always care to make sure hands were clean because their reputation was at stake. Word of a stray hair or, God forbid, booger on a cannoli cake or pasticiotti would travel like wildfire through those small communities. Now the gloves are due to (a) the fact that many in the food service industry simply don’t care whether a wayward snot rocket finds its way onto your food, and (b) the assumption that most food service employees are, in fact, carriers of avian flu or some other equally communicative disease. But, I digress. Back to my cookie. Almost the size of a dinner plate, it was the perfect combination of chewy and crumbly, with large crystals of sugar that would melt on my tongue and take up residence in the corners of my mouth. I could lick my lips hours later and still taste the sweet residue left behind by that beautiful confection. That? Was living.

Our next stop was Oglesby’s Flower Shop at Kerr and Clancy. We’d drive in through the front gate and the crunch of gravel under the tires would keep us company as we wound our way to the front of the shop. There were two buildings on the lot; the flower shop and the house where the Oglesby family lived. Both were a pale gray, the color of gravestones. The perimeter of the property was surrounded by layers of tall trees, overgrown azalea bushes, and a dense canopy of foliage that shut out the noise of the surrounding neighborhood, along with much of the sunlight. The result was an almost eerie darkness and silence that always made me wonder if the place was haunted. Making our way inside, we’d walk through the display floor directly to the work room in the back where a large, long box of flowers waited for us. The makeshift work tables, constructed of plywood and two by fours, held spools of ribbon in every color and size, containers of floral picks and wire, rolls of green tissue paper, and clumps of green floral foam. The floor was littered with discarded stems, wads of tissue paper, flower petals, and the occasional puddle of water. A small radio chained to a beam in the center of the room crackled with easy listening music that was barely audible over the hum of a huge walk-in cooler. Mrs. Oglesby always seemed to be at the same table, busying herself with an arrangement while a younger man that worked there loaded the flowers for us. I would “help” him get them out to the car while my mother and Mrs. Oglesby chatted briefly. Once loaded, we said our goodbyes and headed back out into the noise and sunlight of South Memphis.

Next, we headed to Liberto’s Produce on Webster for fruits and vegetables. It was a warehouse, the entrance to which was in an alley, and the sight of our station wagon backed up to the dock with the larger delivery trucks always drew a few stares. Most of the people there knew us, especially Mr. Memoni. He was a wiry old man with dark but lively eyes who always wore a newsboy cap and a sweater. He would greet us as we came up the concrete stairs to the loading platform. “Ay, look who’s-a-here! Mrs. Simmons, you bring-a you little helper, today, eh?” He’d always shake my hand and pat me on the back. I liked that. It made me feel like I was important. Like I wasn’t just a kid in the way. Like I mattered. He’d motion for a couple of workers to help him gather a few boxes of fruits and vegetables for us. My job was to stand on the ground and put the boxes in the back of the station wagon as they were stacked on the dock. By now the back of the car was filling up, and with one more stop to make, space was a precious commodity. In went a case of apples, a case of bananas, and a case of vegetables. Mr. Memoni always put together a nice mix of what the nuns liked: squash, eggplant, carrots, potatoes, and broccoli. When I had arranged the boxes just so, I would close the back door and climb onto the dock while my mother signed the paperwork. Just before we left each week, Mr. Memoni would toss me an apple or banana and say, “You take-a-this, ok? For all-a-you help, eh?” I would thank him and enjoy one final handshake and pat on the back before we climbed back into the car to make our final stop for the day.

Evangelisti’s Market on Vollentine was our final destination. It was a small mom and pop corner grocery. For some reason, when I was at that young age, I didn’t realize that Evangelisti was the name of the owner; I thought perhaps it was a store for people who had been saved by evangelists, like evangelistees, you know? Being brought up Baptist while working for a Catholic monastery can be very confusing for a seven year old. A bell on the top of the door announced our arrival and departure. The register was right in front of the door, and usually manned by Mr. Evangelisti, who would always offer a hearty “Buongiorno!” At the time I wondered why he called me that when my name was Alan. I never did ask, I just smiled and waved. The store’s concrete floor was cracked in spots, but its glossy coating reflected the shafts of sunlight pouring in through the transom windows. The wooden shelves were lined with canned and boxed goods, sacks of rice and flour, and soda in one liter glass bottles. The meat counter was at the rear of the store and displayed hanging shanks of beef, pork, and lamb, draped with a festive garland of sausage links. A single long cooler bin in front of the butcher’s window held freshly cut and packaged meats. I never knew the butcher’s name, but he was a kind older man with the patience of a saint. While my mother went through the list of needs with Mr. Evangelisti, I would badger this poor man to what would have been, for some, within an inch of sanity. But every question I asked, he gently answered in a thick, raspy Italian accent. As my little fat fingers would point to one, then another of the curious meaty treasures, he would name them for me: “Dhat’s-a-the-prosciutto…dhat-ees-a-called-a-bracciole. You can-a get it wit-a-beef or wit-a-pork…Dees-ees-a-pepperoni, like on-a-de-pizza, you know? An-a-dese? Dese-are-a-called-a -sopressata. Dees-a-one ees-a-sweet, an-a dees-a-one ees-a-hot…” Soon my mother would call for me to go, and he would reach to a nearby table and grab a small piece of oily, fragrant pepperoni and hand it to me with the kind of smile only old Italian men can smile, and say, “Here you go, you take-a-dees wit-a you, ok? Arrivederci, piccolo amico!” (Goodbye, little friend). What a neat old man. I know he has long since passed on, and I sincerely hope that he lived a long, enjoyable life and died peacefully in his sleep. Arrivederci, amico.

~Alan

A Little Background

2009-03-12T15:21:00.002-05:00

I grew up half Baptist, half Catholic. That's our family joke. We were Baptist and attended a Baptist church. But my parents worked for a Catholic monastery. You know... nuns. Twenty-four of them, to be precise. We lived on the grounds in a house provided by the monastery. In exchange for rent and utilities, my father handled the custodial issues and my mother handled transportation. She drove the nuns to doctors appointments, to the shoe store, and, on the rare occasion that one traveled home to visit family, to the airport. They quickly became my other family, and they doted on me just as if I were a nephew or grandson. Most people will nod and smile when I tell them about it—you've seen it, the I-don't-believe-a-word-you're-saying-but-I'll-go-along-just-in-case-you're-a-psychopath nod—but I assure you that I could not make up anything nearly as entertaining. We moved there when I was about two years old, and I lived there until I got married at twenty-seven. I know, I know, I lived with my parents too long. But even with all the crazy things that happened there during those twenty-five years, I wouldn't trade it. I was exposed to a whole other religion, a whole other culture, and I have some great memories. Most of the folks that visited the monastery on a regular basis were, as you might imagine, of Italian descent. There were the Giaccottos, the Bellacerras, the LaBrascas, and many more I don't remember. A lot of them worked for businesses that donated items to the monastery on a weekly basis. The next post is about us picking up those donations every Saturday and all the beautiful people we were privileged to know.

~Alan

Cloak and Dagger

2009-03-11T17:10:00.005-05:00

I responded to a job posting the other day for a legal assistant. Turns out it's the same place I applied a few months ago. The "interview" back then was actually a timed twelve-minute test asking me if there is a difference between similar words like "miner" and "minor". Um, ok. Then they had me complete a personality test that took two hours to complete. Which I did because I need a freakin' job. I never heard a single word back from the firm. I called back to follow up, and the little teenie bopper answering the phone informed me that, "Um, they've like, filled that position already..." Ok, fine. So when I found out this was the same place, I was concerned. But this time I got a voice mail from Judy, a very nice-sounding lady, asking me to call her to set up an interview. So I promptly called back to set up a time with Judy.

Teenie Bopper Receptionist: Thank you for calling (Law Firm), how may I help you?

Me: Hi, I'm trying to reach Judy.

TBR: Um, we don't have anybody here by that name.

Me: Is this (telephone number Judy left)?

TBR: Yeah...

Me: I'm returning her call, and this is the number she left.

TBR: Sorry, we don't have a Judy here.

Me (confused): O....k... uh, this is going to sound dumb, but... are you sure?

TBR: Are you, like, a client?

Me: No, I'm responding to a job posting for a legal assistant, and Judy called me to—

TBR: Hang on, I'll transfer you...

Me (What the?): Ok, thanks...

So I finally reach the elusive Judy and, deciding to take the high road and not question her about her apparent secret identity, I explain that I had already been through the testing gauntlet, passed, and also completed the personality testing, to which she replied, "Well then, you know how it works." No, but I'm getting a pretty good idea. So I went today for the "interview", and, just like before, all the applicants were herded into a conference room to decipher the enigma of the difference between words like "affect" and "effect", "altar" and "alter", and, the most challenging of all, "aisle" and "isle". Fortunately, the personality test had been significantly shortened and only took a half hour. As we were leaving we were told that we would hear something either way within just a few days. I'm not holding my breadth.

~Alan

What a Woman

2009-03-08T23:01:00.000-05:00

Have you ever known someone who is just obstinate enough to never give up? That's my wife, Mary. Ever since I was reorganized out of a job in April, 2008, she's been my support system. I've been able to talk to her about how worthless I feel for being out of work for so long and not being able to land a job. Even with 200-plus jobs applied for and two dozen or so fairly promising interviews. I'm sure there are a lot of wives out there that are supporting their husbands during this economic Suck-a-Palooza. But Mary's extraordinarily strong, for a lot of reasons that I won't go into. It's part of what made me fall in love with her. When we lived in Memphis several years ago, her doctor diagnosed her with Lupus. Or Fibromyalgia. He couldn't decide, so he let the weight of anxiety hang over our heads while he assured us it was one or the other. Yeah, thanks. A year or so ago, her doctor here in Northwest Arkansas did some very comprehensive bloodwork and testing and determined that yes, it was indeed Lupus. If you're not familiar with this disease, it's a chronic inflammatory disease that can affect various parts of the body, especially the skin, joints, blood, and kidneys. It can be fatal in some cases. I get a knot in my stomach just typing that. I can't imagine a day without Mary. When she used to travel for work, she would be gone for days at a time and I would literally be miserable. But when I'm with her, I'm the very best version of myself. And she inspires me every day. And, though there are times when she finds it hard to even move because her joints are swollen and stiff, she'll just make a joke about being an old fart and charge ahead. But she's not an old fart. She's not even forty yet. There are also times when our current situation gets the better of her and she cries and wonders when and how and if it's going to get better. This disease has tried, unsuccessfully, to sideline her, but she's having none of it. Every day she gets up and goes to work as a reading specialist. Helping kids who are having trouble reading learn to make sense of the jumble of letters in front of them, while she faces a jumble of unexplained and seemingly unfair events in her own life. And she keeps going, chipping away at those obstacles until she finds a way through or around. For that, and for a million other reasons, I am hopelessly, unequivocally, and immutably in love with her.

~Alan

Twilight

2009-02-28T21:38:00.000-06:00

My wife started reading Twilight, the best seller from rookie author Stephanie Meyer, and couldn't put it down. She finished the book in two days. This compelled me to read it, which I did. And finished it in two days. If you had told me I'd get into a vampire book, I'd have politely responded, "Um, no." But it was a surprisingly good book. Easy reading, and each chapter left you wanting to know what came next, which speaks to Meyer's abilities as an author. We've now begun the second book, New Moon, and are a few chapters into it. I love reading to Mary—yes, I read aloud to her. This started a few months ago when she purchased a book by (now) one of our favorite authors, also somewhat of a newbie, Jenn Lancaster. She would read for a page or two and then cackle with laughter all of a sudden. "You've gotta hear this," she'd say, and she'd proceed to read me a section. She did this every few minutes. Finally I suggested that I read aloud to her. It's great practice for me as a voice over guy and audiobook narrator and we both get to enjoy the book at the same time. We've (make that I've) now read several books this way, and it's great. So back to Twilight. For those not familiar with the story, the main characters are Bella, a human, and Edward, an unbelievably perfect-looking guy who just happens to be a 108 year-old vampire (a good vampire, not your run-of-the-mill bite-you-and-suck-your-blood vampire). To make a long story short, they fall in love through a series of events, in most all of which Edward emerges the strong, romantic hero. I'm reminded of this each time I read such a passage, as Mary will inevitably sigh, "Edward..." And then she exclaims, "He's so romantic! He watches her sleep! Isn't that the most romantic thing you've ever heard?" And each time, I will stop reading and patiently wait for her to finish swooning before I continue. And each time, she will grin sheepishly, pull the sheet up to cover her mouth, and mumble, "I'll stop." But it continues, my reading and her swooning over Edward, until finally her eyes close and she drifts off. I slide the bookmark between the pages, turn the light off, and watch her as she sleeps.

~Alan

Kids

2009-02-23T15:50:00.001-06:00

I just came from a pizza party with 25 fourth graders. Yeah! You know, I thought I would be all wigged out and anxious afterwards, but I had a really good time. A little background: several fourth-grade classrooms in the local school district are competing for new playground equipment for their respective schools by participating in a contest, one section of which calls for making a video about environmental sustainability. A teacher representing one of the classes at my wife's school asked me to edit their video for them, which I gladly did. They won the video portion of the contest, the prize for which was a pizza party. And they invited me, which was not necessary but super nice of them to do. So I sat there with a room full of fourth graders, all of us eating pizza, telling stories, and laughing our heads off. I thought back to when I was in elementary school. I was teased mercilessly because of my size. Kids could be really mean and hurtful. Thirty-something years later, I'm still a big ol' boy. And I get pointed at and laughed at—but now by adults. I think it's part of human nature to stare at the unusual. Then, too, some folks "just ain't got no manners" as my grandfather would have said. But these kids accepted me without question or hesitation. I'm grateful to them in ways they may never understand. When it was time to go, they all thanked me again for "making their video". Some of them actually came over and hugged me. Too sweet. They all call me by name now, and I look forward to it each time I go to the school. There's something familiar and comforting about hearing "Hi Alan!!" from the playground when I walk across the parking lot. I love being able to smile and wave and call back to my new friends.

~Alan

Can't Judge a Book...

2009-02-16T00:39:00.001-06:00

Yeah, you know the rest of that statement. I've heard it a million times, as we all have, that you can't tell what's on the inside by looking at the outside. Never have I had it so clearly displayed to me as today at Barnes & Noble. While standing in line at the cafe to buy a bottle of IBC root beer, I noticed a really skeevy looking early-twenty-something guy decked out in saggy low rise jeans, boxers puffing out over the waist like a souffle, and a hoodie. Definitely a gangbanger, I thought. As he sat at his small round table, his eyes swept back and forth around the cafe, and, to be honest? Dude was freakin' me out. I started thinking about what I'd do if he pulled out a gun or a knife to rob the place. I was going over the sequence of moves in my head: Drop root beer, scream like girl, dive under nearest table... when the barista called out, "Medium strawberries and cream!" Hoodie McPuffyshorts slowly rose from his table and smiled at the barista, issuing her a polite "thank you" as he retieved his sweet, creamy fruit drink. Then, returning to his table, he proceeded to sip it gingerly, like the "after" version of Eliza Doolittle in My Fair Lady, and peruse through a magazine, which I could now only assume was Modern Quilter or Dog Fancy. Even though he sat there quietly and kept to himself, I kept watching, waiting for him to do something more characteristic of the type of person I'd originally taken him for. I imagined him capping the barista because his drink wasn't "strawberry-y" enough, or pouring some of it on the ground in memory of his dead homies. But he didn't. He sat at his table and read his magazine, and I found myself oddly disappointed. And I discovered that I wasn't so much disappointed with his lack of "gangster behavior" as I was disappointed with myself for having assigned him that role based on his appearance. So I sat at my table, drank my root beer, and thought about the lesson I'd learned. After a short time he got up and left, leaving his magazine, crumpled napkins, and empty drink cup on the table. I smiled to myself, feeling fully vindicated. Thug...

~Alan

Truth in Advertising - Pizza Hut

2009-02-13T19:15:00.003-06:00

OK, Pizza Hut. Cut the crap. Do you think we’re idiots? First there were the people you supposedly fooled into thinking that your Chocolate Dunkers were some fancy French dessert, then there were the New Yorkers you allegedly duped into thinking that your pasta dishes were from an authentic Italian restaurant. But now you’ve taken your foolishness abroad and insulted a whole other country. At one point in new commercial for your Tuscani lasagna, which is purportedly filmed in Rome, Italy, the subtitles translate a young Italian man commenting on your lasagna, saying, “It reminds me of my mom’s." Poor Mama. That’ll kill her. But I have some bad news for you, Pizza Hut. Nobody with even minimal brain activity believes for a second that you fooled a group of real Italians—in ITALY—with your lasagna. I've had your lasagna. I'm not even Italian and I know better. And the video on your website showing the behind-the-scenes footage is mind-numbing. Are we to believe that, in this time of economic uncertainty, corporate layoffs, and stimulus packages, your marketing folks sanctioned a trip to Rome for your chefs, director, crew, and creative team? That you basically remodeled an abandoned “century-old” restaurant, including hidden cameras, microphones, and a control room filled with high-dollar audio and video monitoring equipment? That you flew your pizza ovens to Rome, freaking Italy? Do you really want us to believe that you did all of this to make a thirty second commercial? Ok, let’s assume for a moment that you did do all of the above. Let’s say you did spend an obscene amount of money on air fare (or did you fly in the corporate jet?), a block of hotel rooms, actors, translators, and materials to remodel a restaurant—not to mention the laborers to do it. I can’t help but ask, what is wrong with you people? With the economy in the crapper, unemployment at it’s highest since the Great Depression, and people scraping and scrimping to get by, you decide to jaunt off to Italy to make a freaking commercial? Why not invest that money in ways to make your menu items more affordable so that those folks without income can afford to eat at your restaurants occasionally instead of spending another night at home with a bologna sandwich and Ramen noodles? Do you still have those translators on speed dial? Translate this: Baci il mio asino!

Ciao,

~Alan

More Drama

2009-02-10T11:05:00.000-06:00

Wal-Mart laid off 700-800 employees at their home office. Oil hit $36 a barrel. Robert Plant and Allison Krauss won a Grammy for Record of the Year with their collabarative effort, Raising Sand. Aren't those the first three signs of the apocalypse? Of all the companies you think that might have to resort to layoffs, Wal-Mart is not one that comes to mind. A $300 billion dollar company and the largest retailer in the world. When I was laid off (downsized, right-sized, reorganized, whatever you want to call it) from my corporate job in April 2008, I was pretty sure that I'd get work again inside a month. After all, I live in Northwest Arkansas, and I have the skills that are in demand for suppliers of Wal-Mart. Or so I thought. Since April of last year, I have applied for around 200 jobs, had nearly two dozen interviews, and still have not landed a job. Fortunately, I was blessed to have a nice severance package to see us through for several months. But having been without a job, that money is long gone now. And it's not like I haven't tried to get a job. I haven't just applied for the stuffed shirt corporate gigs—in fact, I'm not sure I ever want to be a corporate stooge again—I've applied for jobs as an office assistant, telemarketer, computer support representative, bank teller, camera operator, caregiver for the elderly, dental hygienist, airport baggage handler, photography assistant, bookseller, data entry clerk...you get the picture. Chances are you're reading this and nodding your head because you're going through the same situation. So many people are. I wish I could say that the worst of it is over, but I don't know that to be true. Seemingly, there's no end in sight. So for all of you that are in the same boat, keep paddling. Enjoy the extra time you have with your family. And don't give up.

~Alan

It's All Happening So Fast...

2009-02-06T14:53:00.001-06:00

Ok, you're aware already that I can be somewhat naive. I don't really keep up with current events and, if quizzed about historical events, I would fail miserably. It just seems like there's so much more to keep up with now that when we were kids. Technology has come so far in just a few years. Mary and I splurged at Christmas of 2007 and purchased iPhones for ourselves. I've never been one to get all giggly and stupid over an electronic device, but I have to confess, I love my iPhone. And yet, I have no inclination as to how it does some of the magnificently cool things it does. To be truthful, there's a lot I don't understand in this world. I still don't get how 3-D movies work. I can't comprehend how Lexus programmed a car to parallel park. Or why, for that matter. Seems to me that if you can't parallel park, maybe you shouldn't be driving. I don't understand how GPS works—I know what it is, and I know what it's used for, I just don't know how it works. It's beyond me how the autofocus function on a camera knows what you want to focus on. And for the life of me, I can't figure out how cramming a tiny plastic grappling hook (Mirena®) into your uterus keeps you from having children, except that perhaps it makes the act of conception so painful that folks just give up and decide to watch Letterman instead. Maybe one day it'll all become clear to me. But in the mean time, I'm off to play Hangman on my iPhone.

~Alan

My first official blog...

2009-02-06T13:58:00.001-06:00

First off, I have a confession: I've never blogged before. I'm a virgin blogger. I guess I just never really understood the whole idea behind blogging. I'm a fairly simple guy—not an idiot, mind you—just a little naive sometimes. I'd always presumed that blogs were for stuffy individuals who were full of themselves and assumed everyone would scramble to read their latest posting. But I've been following a friend's blog for several months now, and I think I finally get it. It's not about that at all. It's sharing your life, your opinions, your good times, and your bad. And maybe reading about your experiences will help someone else. Most of all, it's a great outlet for those of us who love to write but don't have a literary agent in our contacts list. So, with that said, I hope you'll enjoy reading. And if you do, let me know so I know you're out there. Later, all...

~Alan