Dented: An AYM-Style Story

Some of you may be aware of your humble author's dimple. That is correct, it is singular. (Am I the only one who has trouble spelling that word because of a stupid cell phone company?) In case you aren't aware of the story, I'll share it. It has become somewhat of a legend within my family.

When I was about 5, I was running through the house, acting like the heathen child I was. When I was younger, I was prone to the occasional accident. (I say was prone. Who am I kidding? At least this one didn't involve flames, though. Right?) Well, I pulled a -B, and wiped out. I landed smack dab on the corner of the coffee table, cheek first. I'll be the first to tell you that back in those days, the good ole days, they didn't round off the corners of furniture. So, several screams and tears later, there it was. My dimple was born. You can see why I refer to it as my dent.

Just in case there's someone out there who doubts the story, all I have to offer is the proof that I've shown other doubters for years. It's made believers out of them. In my kindergarten picture, I'm showing off this huge cheese of a smile. No dimple. Not even an iota of one. The following year, for my first grade photo, my smile is toned down quite a bit. There it is, bigger than life. Now, no matter the size of the smile, when the lips curl, the dent graces us with its presence.

The reason I'm telling you about the dent is because it came up tonight. (This is the part of the story that really sounds like the AYM talking.) I was floating around the pool with -PB and -XV this evening. I don't even know what happened, but apparently something caused me to smile a bit. -PB then asks me, almost in a stunned voice, to smile again. I ask "Why?" He replies, "You only have one dimple." I proceeded to tell him the story of the dent. That really got me thinking.

You see, I think the moral of this story doesn't lie in the fact that I have a very observant son. Nor does it lie in the fact that I had never told him this story. The crux of it all, the really relevant part, is that I hadn't had a reason to share this legendary story with my very observant son. As observant as he may be, the dent had not been around enough for him to ask about it.

Pretty much anybody who knows me knows that I'm a pretty carefree guy, who is almost always in a good mood. I guess in a world of mortgages, car payments, yards that need mowing, and people who tend to disagree with me as to the value of their real property, I forget to relax from time to time. I should just smile more often, and recognize that more than a real estate appraiser, a homeowner, a taxpayer, and a neighbor, I'm a father. That fact alone should be enough to bring out the dent.

Never Trust a Big Butt and a Smile

Catchy title, huh? As much as I hate to disappoint, this post doesn't really have anything to do with butts. Well, it doesn't right now, anyway. With any luck, it'll stay that way. As some of my faithful readers may know, that's a little line from a song by Bell Biv Devoe. The song is entitled Poison. It appears that as I type, I'm battling a little poison of my own. One that I don't care for at all. Her name is Ivy.

I was weed eating the back yard last week; and, being the genius I am, I decided to do it in Crocs. I knew we had some of the old Toxicodendron radicans around the fence last year. However, I was under the impression we had removed all of it. Even if we hadn't, I've developed a pretty good eye for it. I figured I could spot it and avoid it. I figured wrong.

Luckily, it hasn't spread too far. I've got the usual ankles, backs of knees, elbows. Nothing (yet) in places I don't want to mention. (Not that I've ever had it there before. Okay, once.) The itching isn't too awful bad, but I tend to wear pants and shoes for work that do the scratching/spreading for me.

So, I'm going to Wally World tonight to buy some of the $40 a tube crap to end my misery. I've experimented with every calamine, caladryl, benadryl, ivy dry, ivarest , ivyblock, tecnu product on the market. I've even had a little success with some of them. But let me tell you, don't waste your money on any of that. If you have a run-in with my nemesis, break down and buy the Zanfel (or even a generic equivalent.) I broke down last year and bought some for the first time, and it is truly a miracle drug.

What a Gas

I was reminded this week of an interesting little factoid. It's something I've known for years, but it had somehow slipped my steel trap of a mind. I'm gassing up my grandmother-in-law's car for her, as she panics when the guage gets below about 7/8ths of a tank. There I am, whipping into the only open pump, making sure nobody beats me to it.

I get out and realize the tank is on the other side. Idiot! I then spend more than a couple of minutes having to turn her barge around on this tiny little parking lot, to get the appropriate side of the car towards the pump.

I'm sure everybody knows, unless you're driving my dad's '78 Plymouth Volare, there's a little arrow on your gas guage. I'm sure everybody also knows it points to which side of the car the gas tank is on. Of course, everybody knows that. Right? I know that, I had just forgotten.

I Have a Fetish

No, it's not for latex tank tops or chain mail chaps. Well, not that I'd tell you about, anyway. Come to think of it, perhaps the term "fetish" is a bit strong. It's more of an obsession. Of course, for the title of a post, I think the f-word is a little more catchy. So, I'll leave it at that.

I am currently obsessed with lawn games. I believe I can trace it back to my childhood. I remember a game that involved these metal rods that were heavy on one end with colorful, hard plastic fins that you had to throw into plastic hoops. You might recall them as well.





Jarts were banned from being sold in the United States back in the 80's. I was pretty good with them, although I do recall sticking a couple or 3 in the picnic table in our back yard. (I still can't figure out why they banned them.) From what I've read, it seems you can even get in trouble for selling them at a yard sale. Had something to do with some getting rammed into people's skulls.

Although I haven't thrown a lawn dart in ages, I currently have a few other games that I love to play. I have washer boxes, a bocce set, petanque (the heavy metal balls are way cooler than the bocce ones,) ladderball, horseshoes, and a croquet set. I've actually constructed a miniature-sized croquet court in my back yard. I play pretty regularly with a friend of mine who is an avid golfer. I can hold my own against him, but I think it's the quality of the grass (or lack thereof) that keeps me in it.

Sorry to disappoint, but I really haven't jumped onto the whole cornhole bandwagon. I have played before, and I did fairly well. I just didn't enjoy tossing the little cloth bag as much as rolling a manly metal ball. It's fun to watch, and I'm not disrespecting the legions of cornholers out there. It's just not my particular brand of vodka. (Movie quote, anyone?)

Which brings us back to the beginning, at least for me. I think my quest to be the ultimate backyard gamer will be complete once I obtain my Holy Grail. You see, I want to own a set of Jarts, again. And no, these don't count.



I've found several websites for obtaining good, old-fashioned, dangerous as hell, Jarts. Of course, they can't sell them; that's illegal. They sell Jarts parts. Perfectly legal, with some assembly required. Awesome. So, wish me luck on finding and assembling some. Oh, and if I do, and you're ever in the neighborhood, make sure you've got a helmet on.

Say....

I'm generally a pretty laid back guy, who doesn't let a lot of stuff get to me. I mean, a lot of stuff gets to me, but I usually don't sweat any of it. I do, however, have a plethora of pet peeves. There are so many little quirks that just get under my skin. I rarely say anything about them, unless there's a close friend nearby.

Today I was reminded of one of my pet peeves. This one happens all the time, so I know you've seen it. Hopefully, you've never done it, though. Picture someone approaching you with a small child in tow, and you ask them what they've been doing. Their reply (the adult's reply) is something to the tune of, "Say we've been playing at the park." They begin the sentence with the word "say."

I don't even know how to punctuate that sentence. Are they speaking for the child? Is the child a puppet? Are they wanting the child to repeat what follows the "say"? Regardless, I don't like it. I don't think it makes the kid appear any smarter, and it just makes the adult look silly. Let the child say it, or just tell me yourself that you've been at the park. Maybe just teach the kid when you poke them in the back to open their mouth, you can do the talking, and together you can give me a puppet show. That would show me you're both pretty darn smart. It would also be pretty funny.

Flip Flop Hooray

In honor of our annual company outing on the lake tomorrow, I thought I'd throw a nice summer, summer, summertime post up here, in case anyone still checks in. (For those of you who aren't aware, no, I don't swim. Yes, I will be wearing a lifejacket. Thanks for asking.)

Many moons ago, I posted a comment on Shane's blog about flip flops. It caused quite the little commotion, as I recall. Honestly, I had even given it partial credit for his doing away with the Aeropagus, or whatever he called it. I'm sure he'd just say something about him having to edit himself, or some kind of crap like that. Whatever. The post on his site was focused mostly on how the aforementioned footwear appears to have taken the place of dress shoes throughout much of our society.

Well, now I wanted to touch on a few of the problems (for lack of a better word) I actually notice in the lovely sandals themselves, as well as the wearers thereof. In order to make this concise, honest, and somewhat meaningful to a reader, I'll lay down some pointers or guidelines if one is so inclined to don a pair of flip flops (or thongs, or beachcombers, if you will). For the record, these are more for the ladies, as I don't look at dudes' feet nor do I care what they look like in flip flops. So, let's begin.

1. The first rule of flip flops is you will peel the little clear size sticker off the side.

2. The second rule of flip flops is you will peel the little clear size sticker off the side.

3. The third rule of flip flops is, if necessary, break out the foot file, cracked heel relief cream, or both, prior to wearing.

4. The fourth rule of flip flops is they do not have to match your shirt or pants or shorts or underwear.

5. The fifth rule of flip flops is if they are fuzzy, they belong under or beside your bed - not in the checkout at Wal Mart. (The same can be said for your Sugar Daddy pajama bottoms.)

6. The sixth rule of flip flops is you decide - toenail polish or not. No more of this chipping off, looks like you're 8 years old crap. (Unless, of course, you're 8 years old. Then, carry on.)

7. The seventh rule of flip flops is that they can and do occasionally need to be thrown away.

8. And the eighth and final rule of flip flops is if you could stub your toe while wearing them, (i.e. your toe or toes hang off the front,) get a different size or wear something else. If you're wearing a pair and walk into a chair leg, box, wall, etc., the worst thing you should feel is the between-the-toes-wedgie. Not a stubbed toe.

A Smurf Fan Apologizes

I owe people an apology.

It's not a son I owe, for not wanting to play Go Fish, although I probably owe for that too.

I couldn't even begin to tell you how many people I owe.

It's not to my wife for throwing my dirty boxers in the bathroom floor instead of the hamper.

I've owed the apology for years.

It's not to an ex-girlfriend for correcting and grading her Dear John letter and mailing it back to her. (I'm pretty sure I should be sorry for that as well.)

But how could I apologize when I didn't know I was wrong?

The answer I always sought seemed obvious. It was the answer I had.

I'm sorry.

I guess I should explain. For years I approached people (and still do) with a barrage of questions, and made them feel like fools when they were wrong. Smurfette's tail was made from a pea. The Smurf made out of wood was Clockwork. Where I went wrong was with the Smurf that did all the cooking. Like clockwork, (not the Smurf,) the answers that always came out were "Cookie" or "Baker". No, you imbecile, it was Greedy. Greedy Smurf. Show some sense. Well, last night I'm at my parents' house eating dinner. One of the kids is sitting there with this retro Pizza Hut Smurf glass. I look at it, and recognize the Smurf hat shaped like a chef's. However, I don't recognize the name on it. It says "Baker Smurf" at the bottom. After getting a sudden sick feeling in the bottom of my stomach, I excuse myself, round up the family, and rush home to fire up the computer. Within moments, I know the truth. Not the truth I had been spreading for years in the form of a lie, but the real truth.

You see, I was a religious Smurf viewer for years. They came on KBSI at 3:00, right after I got home from school. Let me rephrase that. I was a religious Smurfs series viewer. Greedy Smurf, who did all the cooking on the series, was also in the original Smurfs movie. However, he didn't do all the cooking. In fact, he didn't cook at all. He just stole all the goodies made by Baker Smurf. Hence, he was greedy. Later, for the purpose of the television series, these two Smurfs were combined into one Smurf, named Greedy Smurf.

So for all of you who answered "Baker Smurf", for all those years, you were right. I was wrong.

For that, I'm deeply sorry. That wasn't very Smurfy of me.

Alright, I Give Up

No, not on blogging, silly. Give me at least a week before that happens.

Let me just say that I'm a music fanatic. I could get into all the different genres, bands, generations, and whatnot that I enjoy, but that would take a while. It can also change from year to year, day to day, or minute to minute. Some people consider it a distraction while working, but I have something in the background almost 24/7.

I usually try to tone down what I listen to while I'm at the office. Not so much to try to conform or anything, but more out of consideration for the other 3 to 5 people around me. For all I know, they may enjoy the occasional Wait and Bleed by Slipknot or Rape Me by Nirvana, but I've never asked.

Today, I turned on ye ole xm online player (so, what if the username I use is nothing remotely close to my name) and found that 51 is doing "30 Days of Coldplay". I decide to give it a shot. After all, I like Speed of Sound, Clocks, and even The Scientist. Well, after about 3 hours of this crap, I am turning it off. They should rename this "30 Days of Coma". I mean, this stuff is slow. I absosmurfly love me some Pink Floyd, which I'll admit drags from time to time. But it will run laps around this stuff. Comfortably Numb could even swim laps around this crap. Breaststroke.

So, I'm changing the station. Just thought you might like to know.

Gentlemen, Start Your Tivos

I know it's a bit late to give notice, but tonight the band Rush is performing on the Colbert Report. It will be their first time on American television in over 30 years. Perhaps you're like I was 5 years ago, and don't really care for the band. I think it was pretty much Geddy Lee's voice that kept me away from them, literally for decades. A few years ago, out of nowhere, I watched the video for Tom Sawyer (which they're supposed to play tonight.) I saw the insane amount of talent they had. I think for me it started with watching Neil Peart, the drummer. Pretty soon, and several youtube viewings later, I was a fan. The amount/quality of sound they produce is ridiculously good. The fact that it's made by only three of them is almost miraculous.

Anywho, they'll be on Colbert's show tonight. Although I typically want to hit Stephen in the head with a croquet mallet, I will be recordifacating the show tonight, as history is being made.

Me and Salt

I've done it. The proverbial hymen has officially been broken. I decided to take the leap. I started a blog. Nobody's ever going to read it or anything, I know. But the thing is... even if it is just for bangers, everybody's doing it. There's a lot of guys doing it.

I was going to start off with a word or two about me. After all, this is my blog. I'm the reason you're here. Then I thought it might be important to throw in a word or two about salt. Since both of these things are of utmost importance, (especially to me,) I decided to combine them both in my very first blog post.

I'm not going to go the usual "I'm a husband, father, brother, son, real estate appraiser, former disco queen, or, whatever" route that some people tend to take. I may be some of those things, but that's not typically what I want to talk (or should that be "type"?) about. I'll also bet that's probably not what anyone would want to hear ("read"?). Although in the future I may mention a wife, son, Land Rover with a leaky sunroof, or Siberian Husky that likes to attack the guy who mows my yard, that's not really what this blog is about. It's about the things that I notice and pay attention to, day in and day out. Some of those things may be of major significance, while some will be utterly small. You see, what I am is an observer. I notice things. I'm sure most people observe the stuff around them, but I tend to notice the smallest of details. The minutiae.

As for the salt, I love it on some fries. I'll put it on a cheeseburger. I've got a good friend who never adds it to anything. Ever. My employer, on the other hand, regularly puts it on pizza. (I've never tried it, but it sounds pretty gross.) Whatever your take may be on salt and the applications thereof, I do recommend a grain or three with anything I say. I take myself seriously, but not seriously enough to think it's my way or the highway, as Dalton would say. (Does Dalton have a last name? They never mention it.) Along this journey, I'll try to infuse a little humor, insight, and knowledge, but I don't guarantee any of it. That is a guarantee. I'll attempt to update as regularly as possible, but I'm sure you've read stuff like that before. I'm also sure this li'l blog will be as random and scattered as my thoughts at any given time. As you'll notice over time, that's pretty friggin' scattered.