Thursday, February 20th, 2014

My family has been doing something rather unique in this day and age: we cook dinner together every Thursday night. Granted that’s the way it was 15-20 years ago, but somehow it drifted away life an untethered boat. Everyone was too busy to make food, or too exhausted, or both.

It’s nothing grandiose. No, we’re not that skilled; I’m not that skilled. My roux is embarrassing. We have to rely on gravy starters and other cheats to get it done within an hour because of work. On the other hand, it’s much more wholesome than buying Subway, Quizno’s, McDonald’s, Burger King, Taco Bell, Captain D’s, KFC, Hot Head, Penn Station, Jersey Mike’s, Chipotle, Whattaburger, In-N-Out, Culver’s, Jimmy John’s, Lee’s Famous, Tim Horton’s, Sbarro, Wendy’s. Arby’s, Pizza hut, Papa John’s, Long John Silver’s, Steak and Shake, Arthur Treacher’s or even my beloved Chick-fil-a. I know I’m leaving some out, but you get the picture.

I peeled a simple white onion last night, and have yet to get the scent off my fingers. It has taken me decades to tolerate Allium Cepa in my food, and I’m still not totally thrilled with its sharp, sourish nature but it went into the roast preparation last night. I decided to go for a baked sweet potato, instead of mashed because I simply won’t eat instant anymore and don’t want to go through the rigmarole of making it.

Even with the mishaps, this is something worthwhile. It’s too easy to get tired of life.

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The Ugly Duckling or the Silly Goose

With all of my superior grace, I still managed to spill a glass of red wine on my home laptop. After I set it out to dry, it seems the wireless NIC has taken a powder. It’s now residing at the computer repair store with no ETA of being fixed. That puts a little bit of a crimp in my blogging. As one can plainly see, I do have alternatives but they’re not the most convenient.

MY PRECIOUS! (Photo credit: Cole Edmonson)

I thought I would use this time to put together all of the observations I couldn’t make in to a full post on their own. It’s a hodgepodge, which bites at my sense of continuity, but it keeps me writing. I like to write, as a painter loves to paint. Inspiration is a trixie hobbit though, and it often has my precious. Yessss.

The Tobacco Werewolf

As you may or may not be able to make out in my Gravatar, I am a smoker. A dirty, dirty smoker to some. I own it for the most part, but have been fighting to get away from lighting up. Have you ever felt weird, when someone says they love smoking? Well, prepare to be uncomfortable again! I am one of those people.

Give me a menthol! (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It is a tactile pleasure, I think. The weight, the draw, the gesture are almost a part of my personality. That is what makes me a tobacco werewolf. After a few drinks, a bad day at the office, or a friend lighting I turn into a mad beast (internally, my mind is Lon Chaney, Jr.). I simply have to have one. Of the two general types of addictions, this is probably categorized as a mostly psychological. My mind is more powerful than my body and has the terrible ability to rationalize tobacco.

In recent months, I have attempted alternative measures to assuage this monster. Gum, vapor, cold turkey, and now the patch have been added to my seemingly futile attempts to curb smoking. Admittedly, last night I fell off the wagon and got back up this afternoon. I don’t ask for anyone’s sympathy or whatnot. I’m not the type to beg, plead, or otherwise excuse the activity. It just is, and I accept the consequences of those actions. How many people can say they do that?

Private Eyes Are Watching You

In another candid camera moment, local authorities are now storing your day-to-day travels just in case you might be doing something illegal. I file this one under the increasingly growing “guilty until proven innocent” section. However, there still are people convinced otherwise. Why worry, if one’s not doing anything illegal? Right? Here’s a question for you. Do you really understand the law? Have you taken the time to read all the Federal, state, and local regulations? If you have, you’d realize the massive amounts of text it provides. This voluminous subject covers a lot of ground, stated in simplicity. With such verbiage is also the idea of interpretation. You see, situations occur when two people take the same law and read it differently. In other words, you may think you’re the model citizen obeying every sort of law imaginable. Authorities may think otherwise. Guess who’s going to win without a lengthy battle in court? My money’s on the law enforcement.

For example, say you were to take a marvelous vacation to the great state of Maine. What’s one food for which Maine is exalted? Lobsters. I love lobster just as much as the next seafood enthusiast, but do you know the regulations on lobsters? If Maine is anything like the other East coast states, trawlers will vend their food as soon as they get off the boat. North Carolina shrimpers will set up shop with a cooler and a tent just to capture the allure of freshness.

Being these fisherman are in the business, and you’re not, they are aware of the v-notched lobsters they caught and sell one to you. You start driving away blissfully thinking of how you’ll prepare the little devil. Suddenly, you’re pulled over by Maine’s finest a few miles later. “There was a boat that just came in with an illegal lobster catch. Our cameras caught your car driving away from the docks, and we are asking to search your car.” This is a request you really, really don’t want to deny. Authorities don’t like noncompliance, and will make your life Hell if you don’t.

They find your dinner, and now you’re slapped with $600 in fines for having illegal lobster in your car. It’s the same with stolen property. Even if you’re not aware of the illegality of the stolen merchandise, you are still held culpable for the purchase. You are the one currently holding illegal goods. Possession is 9/10 of the law.

Should you really have to go through all of this, because you did something innocuous? You’re not trafficking lobster. You’re not some criminal kingpin. You just wanted dinner. You’re not going to do it again. It’s a stupid lobster! How many of these obscure rules are there?! In short, you are held to a very difficult standard as a layman in which compliance has become treacherous. That is why you should be concerned about surveillance like this while “you’re not doing anything wrong.”

To Post or Not to Post

I’ve been thinking about the lack of security of the Internet and my books. It started with a concern raised by frommtvtomommy, and snowballed into a Thursday night drinking session. I like writing, and love to share. That’s not to say I would mind receiving some income from what I create, or more importantly, prevent someone making money off of me. It’s not my focal point, but I’m not so sure now it should be ignored. While I will take my current story to a conclusion, there are three other stories I’ve started that haven’t been discussed in detail. One of them I haven’t mentioned anything about until now. I’m not sure how I could share them without helping someone else profit at my expense.

With that, it’s time to make the doughnuts. More importantly, it’s time to eat the doughnuts! Have a great rest of your weekend everyone!

Peanut Brittle Family

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and accordingly, there were several meditative posts on people’s fathers. I had to think long and hard if I wanted to post anything on the subject. On a life’s scale, it could be far worse. He could be absent, unavailable, incapacitated with drink or other drugs, in jail, physically abusive, deceased, but he is not. He can be very hard to handle at times, though. I was concerned yesterday evening would be such a case. My muscles were tight and on stand by for the typical family meltdown, but I put on my best happy face and tried to make the best of it.

We made it off a rocky week. My father thinks acting like an ass to upset me is wildly amusing. Maybe private-time me would only be irritated, but to be difficult during business hours is unacceptable. Dragging feet or pretending to drag feet and being obstinate is out of the question. Saying afterwards, “I’m only joking,” is not enough. In fact, I’ve never found apologies meaningful. It’s true they may be sincere and valuable to the speaker, but I don’t find meaning in them. If you would like to apologize, help me out.

Sunday I made it out with only having my meal ruined, and when compared to other times in my life, I’ll take what I can get. My family set out for Port Columbus Int’l (CMH) to pick up my sister. She’s 38, but takes to driving in larger cities like cats do to baths. Something I take pride in is being able to drive, fly, or otherwise commute on my own. Independence has been my bride for years, and I have loved her as tenderly as I ever could love a woman. It makes me grouchy when I get whiffs of fecklessness in my peers. In turn, I get very sore with myself if I find it in me.

Being the considerate, I drove most of the trip. Being it Father’s Day, we decided to have dinner at Schmidt’s Sausage Haus. As a gift, I paid for the four of us. I thought it better than a stupid gift card to a home improvement store. Maybe I was mistaken?

After the arrival at CMH, spirits were rather high. While we waited for the Frontier gorillas to mash the luggage a bit more, I was entertaining myself by riding up and down the escalators like a simpleton. My sister had her little escapade in Pennsylvania, and was being pleasant. My parents seemed happy. We tried to take our luck to the restaurant and ride the fumes out through the night.

Here’s where it started to unravel. With my mother a might peckish, she became irritable. The 45 minute wait was not well received by her, but I was firmly against going to something like Bucca Di Beppo.  We patiently waited, and I decided to anesthetize myself with a 22 oz. beer. Not only did it do the trick, it made me louder. I was told to keep it down more than once by my mother.

After seated, we headed for the dinner buffet. I generally dislike buffets for the clientele it attracts, but will always make an exception for this place. Filling a couple of plates with delightful food, such as bratwurst and German potato salad, I overhear the light squawking of my mother about two pans being empty. Tuning out the first-world problem I went to the red cabbage.

By the time I reached my table, I witnessed the tail end of a “discussion” between my mother and the server. It wasn’t an amiable discussion either. From what I gather, my mother said something about food not being available and assume the server said  it wasn’t her problem in a round about way. In truth, it wasn’t. Those trays are the problem of the line cooks in back. They are the ones to be nagged. She was less than impressed and entered her icy, withdrawn, silent treatment mode with the waitress. Things got ugly after the server left. When we were alone, she turned to me and said, “don’t you dare tip her.”

She couldn’t have struck me harder if she used a monkey wrench. What balls she had telling the person buying her dinner how to pay for a meal. I am her son, yes, but this damn near broke my heart. My willingness to eschew the small irritations of having a good meal for the family went disregarded. My parents are the type of people to stiff the help, if they got a bug up their ass. I am not. I am firmly not. My father chimed in with, “she’s not getting any money from me.” Does anyone truly pay attention in my family? I was… uh… I was picking up the tab for this, Dad.

We made more small talk. All the while, I began to plot. I plotted on how to get them out of the building in order to pay for the meal. The more I thought, the less I tasted my dinner. What a waste. I finally settled on trying to pay at the cash register. A few minutes passed, and I thought we were out in the clear.

My sister, in the stupidest move of the night, unexpectedly cut in with “I wonder at what point she realized she was screwed.” In a very, very hurt fury by now I kicked the leg of her chair and barked, “eat your food!” The usual heavy blanket of silence fell upon the table. A fuse was lit, and I waited for the explosion. My father started in with his usual old man bitching with, “this wasn’t a good idea.” Fuck you. Fuck all of you miserable assholes. My insides were torn apart. I wanted to be anywhere but there at that point.

Looking at my phone, I found out how much time had passed between our seating and our departure: 30 minutes. 30 minutes. That’s how much time I was given for a family dinner, on my dime, and with nothing but pissy attitudes with it. Everyone was so cross, I couldn’t finish my second beer. It had to be left behind to get these assholes on the road. Fortunately for me, I was feeling some of the beer and it didn’t hurt as much.

I got everyone out of the building to the best of my ability and found the server. With my speech a little on heavy side, I explained to the young waitress I didn’t care what was said, but it really pissed my mother off. It was also stated there was a healthy tip with my payment, because I don’t believe in stiffing people. Ever. Not being able to process English, the girl tried to tell me her side of the story. I ignored her. What part of “I don’t care what happened” do you not understand? Take the fucking grace, dipshit.

On the way home, I kept everything to myself. That’s my only recourse. Do not add fuel. Be courteous. Be brief. I wanted to escape in the worst way. Reflecting in a bar that night, the problem came to light. I’m not an adult in their eyes. I’m nothing but the small boy with the He-Man figures. I’m their little boy… to control, dismiss, and scold. I may never have an adult dinner with my parents for as long as they live, and that’s painful.